Chapter Twenty-Four #2
He ignores me and bends to pick up the pyjamas from the sofa, tucking the fluffy socks on top before looking across at Oscar. “Which room?”
Oscar points down the hallway without moving from where he’s standing. “Second door on the left.”
Josh nods once and starts leading me that way, keeping our hands linked as we move. I glance back over my shoulder and find Oscar watching us, his expression unreadable but his posture stiff, arms folded so tightly across his chest that the muscles in his forearms are pulled taut.
Emma comes back and squeezes past, heading straight for Oscar and wrapping one hand around the back of his neck, holding him until some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
The last thing I see of them is Oscar’s head bowing, like he’s in pain, and Emma leaning up to kiss his cheek. But I’ll worry about that tomorrow.
The spare room is small but warm, with a double bed pushed against one wall and a chest of drawers opposite.
There’s a lamp glowing softly beside the bed, and somebody has pulled the duvet back neatly.
Josh lets go of my hand to put the pyjamas and socks down on the end of the bed, then turns back to me and takes me in again.
Whatever he sees makes his whole expression soften.
I don’t think I have anything left in me. My arms hang uselessly at my sides, every muscle aching, my head heavy enough that keeping it upright feels like work, and when I try to reach for the hem of his borrowed hoodie my fingers fumble against it twice before I give up.
“Come here,” he murmurs, stepping closer, green eyes blazing. “Let me help you.”
I look at him, too tired to even pretend I’m offended by the suggestion. “I can get changed by myself.”
“I know you can.” His hands hover near my waist. “You don’t have to prove that to me. But you look exhausted and I want to help.”
“I am exhausted.”
“Okay,” He whispers. “So then let me help.” He slides his fingers under the hem of his hoodie that I’m in, making my breath hitch. “Can I?”
My eyes drop to his hands and then back to his face.
There isn’t anything suggestive in the way he’s looking at me, no trace of the flirting or tension that usually seems to exist between us whether we acknowledge it or not.
He just looks worried, painfully gentle, and after everything that happened tonight there is something about him asking instead of assuming that makes my throat tighten all over again.
I nod.
Josh moves slowly enough that I could stop him if I wanted to, gathering the fabric in both hands before lifting it a few inches. “Arms up for me, Rubes. Nice and easy.”
I do what he says, although one shoulder protests and my face twists before I can hide it.
“Alright,” he mutters, stopping instantly. “Don’t force it. Which side hurts?”
“Right.”
“Okay.” He lowers the hoodie again and studies it for a second, working out how to get it off without making me lift that arm too high.
“We’ll do the left first. You’re fine. I’ve got you.
” His fingers find the cuff and gently guide my left hand through, then he eases the fabric over my head before carefully working it down my right arm rather than pulling.
When the hoodie finally comes free he drops it onto the chair beside us before looking back at me. “Better?”
“A bit.”
“Good.”
I’m left in the top I was wearing underneath, dirty from the ground and stiff in places where blood has dried into the fabric, and Josh’s jaw tightens when he sees the bruising spreading above the neckline and along my arms. He doesn’t comment on it, though.
His hands settle lightly around my forearms instead, nowhere near the marks, and his thumbs move against my skin in slow strokes.
“Nearly done.” The tenderness in his voice wrecks me.
“I feel disgusting,” I quietly admit. “I should probably shower.”
His brows pull together, gaze sliding all over my face. “You’re not and you can shower tomorrow.”
“My clothes are covered in crap.”
“Yeah. Your clothes are disgusting,” he corrects, reaching for the hem of my top. “You aren’t.”
A weak laugh escapes me. “Thanks.”
“Any time.” He waits again, eyes meeting mine until I give him another nod, and then he lifts the top slowly. This one comes off easier, but I still tense when his fingers brush the inside of my elbow. “Sorry.”
“It didn’t hurt.”
“You flinched.”
“I’m jumpy. I’m sorry.”
He sets the top with the hoodie and comes back to me without rushing. “You don’t need to apologise for any of it. Actually, please stop apologising.”
I’m standing in my bra and leggings now, and under any other circumstances I would probably combust from embarrassment at being half-undressed in front of Josh, but there is nothing sexual about this.
He doesn’t look anywhere except my face and the bruises on my arms, and when his attention does lower it is only to work out how to help me without hurting me.
“I can do the trousers myself,” I breathe, although even saying it feels optimistic, my whole body is spent.
Josh raises an eyebrow.
“I can.”
“Alright,” he relents.
I reach for the waistband and realise bending forwards makes my ribs scream. My hand stops there and I shut my eyes, frustrated so much that tears threaten again.
“Hey.” Josh catches my hand before I can try again. “None of that.”
“I can’t even get my own clothes off.”
“You’ve had a horrible night.” He crouches in front of me and lets go, resting his hands on his own knees. “Let somebody help you for five minutes.”
“Josh,” I plead, refusing to look down at him kneeling between my feet.
“Let me help you.” His voice is thick with emotion. “Helping you is helping me.”
“How can that be true?”
“Because I can’t do anything about what happened to you.
” His fingers brush lightly against my knee and my legs threaten to give out.
“I can’t go back and stop it, I can’t take the bruises off you, and I can’t make you forget any of it happened.
But I can help you get changed. I can make sure you’re warm.
I can get you into bed.” He looks up at me. “So let me do that.”
I finally look down at him, and the sight nearly finishes me off.
Josh is below me, bruised jaw tilted up, his fingers resting carefully against the inside of my forearm, and he’s looking at me with such quiet focus that it feels like nothing in the room matters to him except getting me through the next five minutes.
The amount of care in his face makes me want to break down and sob.
“Okay,” I give a sharp nod.
He stays still. “Okay as in I can help?”
I tip my head forward. “Yeah.”
His hands move to the waistband of my leggings with caution, waiting for me to change my mind, and when I don’t he eases the fabric down slowly, careful not to catch any of the tender places along my hips or thighs.
“You’re doing great, Ruby,” he murmurs, concentrating on what he’s doing instead of looking at me. “Just lift your foot for me.”
I do, gripping onto the top of his shoulders when the movement jolts my body and pain tears through me.
Josh must sense it because his hand comes up to steady my calf whilst he works the other over my ankle.
He does the same with my other leg, muttering little things the whole time, telling me he’s got me, and I’m doing great, and that he’s so impressed with me.
When the leggings finally come free, he folds them over his arm and stands, setting them with the rest of my clothes before reaching for the pyjama bottoms.
The ridiculous cat faces make him pause. “They couldn’t have found anything else?”
“The cats are cute.”
“Do you even like cats?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I prefer dogs.”
“Yeah.” He gives a small smile and starts to crouch again.
“Thought as much.” He opens one of the pyjama legs.
“Foot.” I slide it in. “The other.” I obey and he pulls the fabric carefully up my knees, moving away once I can reach for them myself.
When I get them over my hips he reaches for the top. “Want me to help with this too?”
I nod, trying not to let the embarrassment end me right here and right now.
He lifts it over my head first, guiding my good arm through and then taking his time with the sore one, his fingers barely brushing my skin as he works the sleeve over it.
When the fabric settles around me, he smooths it down over my sides, not lingering anywhere, just making sure nothing is twisted or caught beneath me.
“There,” he murmurs. “Nearly human again.”
I let out a tiny laugh. “Charming.”
“You know what I mean.”
He reaches for the fluffy socks last, and something about watching this tall, broody boy sit down on the edge of the bed and carefully tug ridiculous cream socks over my feet makes my heart want to explode.
It is so domestic and so gentle and so completely unlike anything I ever imagined being intimate with someone would feel like.
This goes far beyond sex ever could, because there is nothing for me to hide behind here, no flirting or kissing or clever excuse for why we are this close.
He is seeing me exhausted and bruised and barely holding myself together, watching me fail at things I should be able to do for myself, and instead of making me feel embarrassed or weak he is handling every part of me with this ridiculous amount of care.
He is helping me because I need him, and letting him do it feels more exposing than sleeping together ever could.