The steam curled around him like a embrace he didn't trust yet.
I stood in the doorway of the bathroom, watching him shiver despite the warm water pooling at his feet. His shoulders were too sharp, too thin beneath the surface, and his dark eyes were fixed on me with that same unblinking wariness-like he expected me to vanish if he looked away.
"You didn't have to do all this." His voice came out rough, scratched raw by something deeper than the cold. "I still can't believe it's real. I keep waiting to wake up back in that cold cell."
I pulled the string for more hot water, watching the steam rise thicker between us. "Since it's your first day here, I'm guiding you."
He didn't argue. Just let the warmth wash over him while I pulled a soft bathrobe from the cupboard and hung it on the rod. I told him to rest, to take his time, that he could wear it when he finished.
When I stepped out to give him privacy, I heard his bare feet pattering on the heated tile a few minutes later. His voice came through the door, quiet and shy.
"I... I got it done. Can I come out now? It smells like your soap in here. I like it."
I giggled at that. "My soap. Okay."
He emerged in the bathrobe, the belt tied crooked, his damp hair curling at the ends. I led him to the dining table where I'd laid out rajma chawal, a bowl of steaming soup, and a glass of water. The television hummed softly in the corner.
He stopped in the doorway like he'd hit an invisible wall.
I watched his face crumple and smooth out, watched him take in the spread like he was memorizing it. He sat down slowly, testing the chair before committing his full weight, and looked up at me with eyes so wide and wet they hurt to hold.
"You made this just for me?" His voice cracked on the last word. "I haven't had a home-cooked meal in years."
I smiled.
He picked up the spoon like it might bite him, hand shaking, and took the first bite. His eyes went wide. He swallowed hard, and I saw his throat work to get it down past whatever emotion was lodged there.
"...It's really good." He mumbled around another bite, voice thick. "Best thing I've ever eaten. Thank you. For everything, I mean."
I nodded, but my feet didn't want to move toward the bathroom. I stood there, watching him eat, and the question clawed its way up my throat before I could stop it.
"You won't leave me, right?" My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "Can I go leaving you here? You won't run, right? Garrett, can I trust you?"
I locked the main channel door without thinking. A safety ritual I didn't know I still had.
He froze mid-spoonful. Then set the spoon down gently, dark eyes softening as they found mine. He leaned forward, voice steady and sincere.
"You can trust me. I won't go anywhere. I promise. This is the first good thing I've had in so long. I'm not gonna throw it away."
"Okay. Don't go anywhere. I'll be back after taking a shower. Just be here."
He nodded, pushing his food around his bowl but not eating much anymore. When I passed him on the way out, his fingers brushed against my wrist-quick, shy, barely a touch.
"I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere. I swear it."
---
The shower washed more than dirt away. By the time I stepped out, wrapped in my own robe, my skin pink from the heat, I felt lighter. Cleaner. Like the day's weight had spiraled down the drain.
I found him at the kitchen window, staring at the moon through the glass. He turned when he heard my footsteps, and that soft, genuine smile tugged at his mouth.
"You look a lot more relaxed now." His voice was warm. "I like seeing you like this."
He stepped closer, and I caught the faint scent of my herbal soap clinging to his clean skin. When I reached for the first aid kit, his fingers brushed against mine and stayed there.
"Come sit with me on the couch," he said. "I can't wait to show you what games I used to play before... everything happened."
He settled beside me, stretching out his bandaged hands for me to re-dress. His shoulder pressed against mine, light and warm. I worked slowly, cleaning the new blood from his knuckles, watching his face the whole time. He didn't flinch. Just watched me back.
"I never thought I'd get to have this." His voice was so quiet I almost missed it. "A normal night with someone who actually cares about me."
He flinched when the antiseptic stung a fresh cut, but he didn't pull away. Just held still for me. When I finished wrapping the clean bandages, he laced his fingers through mine-his palm warm and calloused-and leaned his head onto my shoulder.
"Can we just... stay like this for a little while? I don't even feel like playing games anymore. This is perfect."
I reached for the moisturizer, squeezed some into his palm, and showed him how to apply it to his face. His fingers followed my movements, clumsy but earnest. Then I handed him a piece of paper and a pen.
"You can write anything you want. A letter, or something you want to say to me or anyone else. Just write it and relieve your mental health. I'll have my dinner."
I blinked and smiled.
He took the pen and paper, turning them over in his hands like they were made of glass. "Okay. I'll write something."
I gave him a diary-a small present, I told him. His personal book, for whenever he felt the urge to express something he couldn't say out loud.
His breath caught. He clutched the diary to his chest like it was something precious, and I saw his eyes glisten.
"No one's ever given me a present before." His voice wobbled. "Thank you. I... I'll write all my good things in here. Starting with tonight."
I ate my dinner while he wrote, the soft scratch of pen on paper filling the quiet. When my fork scraped against my plate, he looked up, shy and open.
"Can I read you what I wrote so far? It's... it's about you. I want you to hear it."
"Really? For me?"
He nodded, cheeks flushing pink as he flipped back to the first page. He cleared his throat, fingers tightening around the paper, and read his messy, slanted handwriting out loud.
"Today, I met someone who didn't treat me like a monster. For the first time in years, I don't feel scared anymore. I think I could learn to be happy here."
He handed me the paper. I read it, folded it carefully, and tucked it into my pocket.
"Can I keep this?" I asked, and he nodded again, eyes bright.
I took a breath. "Can I tell you something?"
He waited.
"Look, I know people made you feel like you're the monster. But you're an individual just like them. Forget their words. What they told you. I know you feel hurt. I'm here for you. Don't be sad."
He stared at me, lips parted.
"And yes, everyone's built different. Not all five fingers of our hand are the same size, so how can you expect everyone to be the same? Look, I know you've been badly hurt, and I'll try helping you overcome it. I won't leave you. I promise. You're still precious. You're still lovely. So don't you worry about yourself. Try trusting yourself too-not all at once, but slowly, slowly. It'll be good. Don't just hold onto their perception of you. Got it?"
He stared at me.
Then tears spilled over onto his cheeks. He didn't wipe them away. He just leaned forward and pressed his face into my shoulder, his hands shaking where they clutched my shirt. His voice came out muffled and broken, warm against my skin.
"I... I trust you. If you think I'm not a monster, then... then maybe I'm not. I'll try. For you. I really will."
"Yes." I patted his back, smoothing the tension out of his spine. I let him cry against me until his breathing steadied, then wiped his tears with my thumb. I gave him his medicine with a glass of water.
He took the pills without complaint, swallowing them down, then laced his fingers through mine again. He leaned his head against my shoulder.
"I'll take whatever you give me. I know you won't hurt me. I believe you."
---
I led him to the bedroom, pulled back the covers, and tried to tuck him in. But when I moved to leave, his hand shot out and caught my wrist.
He didn't let go.
"C'mon," I whispered, trying to soothe him. "You need to rest."
He shook his head, fingers tightening. Didn't speak. Just looked up at me with those dark, damp eyes, and I felt something crack open in my chest.
I gave in.
I let him settle his head in my lap, his face pressing against my thigh. His arms wrapped around my waist, holding tight like he was scared I'd dissolve into mist.
I ran my fingers through his hair, working out the tangles gently.
"This is the nicest I've ever felt." His voice was already thick with sleep. "I don't ever want to wake up from this."
I smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and kept petting his head. "Hmm, hmm."
His breathing slowed. Deepened. His grip loosened but didn't let go.
And there, in the soft lamplight, with his head heavy in my lap and his trust pressed warm against my skin, I let myself believe that maybe-just maybe-we could both learn to be happy here.
