Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lucy
The water’s gone lukewarm, but I can’t bring myself to get out of the tub. Not yet. Not when everything in my life feels so strange and blurry and undefined. Like the steam on the mirror, the fog on the horizon.
Nash’s spare bathroom is quite luxurious.
Small and quiet, all slate-gray tile and matte black fixtures.
A glass-walled shower stands across from the freestanding bathtub.
The lighting is soft and indirect, casting golden pools across the stone floor.
Even the silence feels intentional here.
I tip my head back against the edge of the tub, one knee poking above the surface like a little island.
My phone buzzes and I smile. Stella and Gabby know about the kiss last week and have been teasing me ever since.
Instead of a message from my friends, Mom’s name flashes across my screen.
Mom
Been a couple days. How ya holding up?
I quickly fire of a response that minimizes my injury, maximizes my happiness, and doesn’t mention Nash at all, then happily open a text from Stella to distract myself.
Stella
So?? Is Nash still walking around shirtless but pretending he just wants to be friends?
Twice today alone. It was cruel and unnecessary
Gabby
Your definition of cruel differs from mine
You haven’t seen what I’ve seen
Stella
You’re so dramatic
YOU HAVEN’T SEEN WHAT I’VE SEEN
I stare at the screen, water trailing down my wrist before typing again.
He’s funny in this dry, sarcastic way that sneaks up on you
And yes, he’s infuriating, but more than that, he’s so incredibly, but so quietly KIND
If you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss it
And then that day at the pier? Nothing happened, but it was like, the best day I’ve had in a long time
Stella
So, you like him
That’s not new information
Gabby
Oh honey, she liked him the day they met
Now?
She’s gone
I bite my lip.
They’re not wrong.
This week has felt like falling into a rhythm I didn’t know I was craving.
Morning coffee already brewed.
Playlists we argue about during PT.
His warm hands pressing against my scar tissue, drawing circles there with his thumbs, making me forget how broken I’m supposed to feel.
And every night, we part ways in the hallway with words unsaid between us, eye contact doing the heavy lifting, thick and honeyed and heavy.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the day. Replaying him.
We haven’t kissed again.
We’ve barely touched.
But it’s there, this thing. It’s in the way his eyes linger too long when he thinks I’m not watching. In the way he corrects my form during stretches and then doesn’t quite step back. It’s in the silence. The kind that hums with wanting.
But it’s more than that. I genuinely like being with him. He makes me laugh. He listens to my opinions, my hopes, my dreams, and he doesn’t laugh or poke fun, he figures out a way to make them reality.
I drop my phone on the bathmat with a sigh and press my palm flat against my chest.
It doesn’t matter what’s lingering or humming or any of that so why don’t we just think about something else?
Easier said than done, so I pull the plug, hoping a change of scenery will help.
The water gurgles down the drain, swirling around my legs, pulling the last bit of warmth with it.
I reach for my crutches, leaned carefully against the edge of the tub.
The rubber tip catches. Everything tumbles—metal on tile, a crashing symphony of chaos.
One crutch hits the floor. The other bounces off the sink. Startled, I flinch and lose my balance.
“Shit!” I catch myself, mostly, but water sloshes over the side, my elbow bangs the wall, and a startled yelp escapes as I twist to keep my ankle from hitting.
“Lucy?”
Nash’s voice. Sharp. Immediate. Then a knock. “You okay in there?”
“I’m fine!” I call, too fast.
“Did you fall?”
“No. Yes. Kind of. I’m fine!”
And naked.
And wet.
So naked and wet.
The doorknob turns. The door opens.
“Nash…! Don’t you dare—”
He freezes halfway in the doorway, one hand on the frame like he’s anchoring himself. His eyes go wide, and then immediately—immediately—he turns away.
“I’m not looking,” he says quickly. “I just… are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt.” I clutch the edge of the tub, water pooling around me, wet hair stuck to my neck. “But everything fell. Including my dignity.”
He glances over his shoulder, cautious. “You sure you’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“Your voice says ‘fine.’ Your situation says ‘humiliated.’”
“I hate you a little right now.”
He smirks without looking. “Glad you’re okay.”
Eyes carefully averted, Nash bends down, grabbing one crutch, then the other. His bare feet shift on the tile, and I watch the muscles move in his forearms as he tests each crutch before leaning them gently back against the wall—too far for me to reach on my own.
“I’ll hand you a towel,” he says, still facing the other way.
“I’m not made of porcelain, you know.”
“No,” he says, voice low. “You’re made of stubbornness and clear blue.”
That hits something I don’t have a name for.
Like a fault line cracking open somewhere deep inside me.
Like warmth flooding a place I forgot was cold.
“What did you just say?”
Nash reaches for the towel and holds it out without turning. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Still facing away, his voice deepens. “I said you’re stubborn. And bright. And impossible to ignore… even when I know I should.”
The silence thickens. It wraps around us like steam.
“I can’t get out,” I say softly, then clear my throat. “Without the crutches. I… I can’t get out on my own.”
Nash turns just enough to find my eyes. Doesn’t stray lower. He looks like a man standing in the middle of a minefield.
“Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Let me help.”
He kneels beside the tub, and every part of me stills.
“I’ll hold the towel up,” he murmurs. “You just… stand. I won’t look.”
“You will have to look. Eventually.”
His gaze flicks to my face and something passes through his eyes that makes my breath catch.
“Only if you ask me to.”
My heart thuds. My breath skips.
I nod.
He holds up the towel like a shield and keeps his gaze locked on the wall as I brace a hand on the edge and begin to rise. I wobble. He steps in closer, one hand braced under my elbow, steadying me.
My bare shoulder brushes his forearm like a live wire.
We both freeze as the air between us snaps, tight and electric.
“Okay,” I breathe. “I’m good.”
“Step here.”
He helps me onto the mat, and the towel—mercifully—covers most of me, though not the pounding of my heart or the flush beneath my skin.
His hand hovers at my back as I reach for the crutches.
But they’re too far.
He sees it a second before I do and moves.
Fast.
His chest brushes my back as he steps around me, grabs the crutches, and sets them gently within reach. He lingers for a second too long.
Or maybe not long enough.
Then his voice—low and ragged—right beside my ear:
“I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect me.”
I turn my head slowly, heart thundering.
“It’s not just you,” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine, gray and storm-thrashed and burning.
Everything in me begs to drop the towel, to step into his arms, to feel his lips on mine, his hands on my skin.
I want to taste him. To know him. To soothe this trembling ache building deep and low and tender.
Nash steps back, hands dropping to his sides, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For coming to my rescue. Again.”
He nods once, then steps out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.