Chapter 7 #2
The kind of scent that doesn’t belong on a guy who’s spent a week marinating in street sweat and bad decisions.
I pump a blob into my palm, grimace a little, and mutter to myself, “Sorry, Carol,” before working it into my hair.
Twice.
Because holy fuck, I needed this.
I scrub myself like I’m trying to erase the last four days.
Like if I scrub hard enough, the concrete will melt off my skin and the memories will crawl back into place.
My casted arm is a pain in the ass—awkward angles, water I have to keep away from the wrap—but I manage.
I work around it like it’s a part of me now, because for all I know, it is.
And the water—hot and steady—feels like the closest thing to heaven I’ve had in years. Or days. Or however long I’ve actually existed like this. My sense of time’s shot to hell, but one thing’s certain:
This is the first time I’ve felt clean in a week.
Clean, but also exposed.
Naked in the truest, most humiliating sense.
Because I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be in Carol’s shower, using her lemon-strawberry shampoo, standing on her bath mat, touching the things she trusts in a space she let me into.
It’s needed.
It’s a fucking gift.
And it’s so goddamn embarrassing that I have to blink fast and bite the inside of my cheek to stop anything from slipping out with the steam.
I rinse off one last time, breathing through it, trying to keep it together.
Then I dry off with the towel she left—soft, fluffy, smells like detergent and sanity—and I immediately hit a wall.
A very naked, no-options, oh-fuck-what-now kind of wall.
Because, yeah. Right. I don’t have clothes.
Not real ones. Not clean ones. Just the same grimy-ass hoodie and sweatpants I’ve been wearing since the hospital kicked me out like a used tissue.
They’re in a heap now—smelling like five days of street funk and sadness—and there’s no goddamn way I’m putting them back on after that slice of shower heaven.
So I do the only thing I can do: wrap the towel around my waist like I’m in a soap opera and hope to God I don’t flash anything, then awkwardly crack open her bathroom door with the offending pile of clothes in my hands.
“Um—Carol?” I call, voice half a squeak.
“Yeah?” she answers from the living room, casual.
And then I see her.
And holy fucking hell.
She’s not in scrubs anymore. She’s barefoot, golden hair wild and loose, wearing this soft, oversized T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder like a sin, and tiny cotton shorts that are not helping my brain function in any capacity.
Her legs are bare, smooth, and those shorts?
Jesus. They cling to her hips like they were custom made for the express purpose of killing me where I stand.
She turns slightly, eyebrow raised. “What’s the matter?”
And I blink.
Once. Twice. Brain rebooting.
“I—uh—I don’t have clothes,” I say. Dumb. So fucking dumb. I’m standing here with her towel barely hanging on and a pile of biohazard in my arms and all I can do is stare at the curve of her ass and think you absolute idiot, stop ogling your savior.
She eyes the clothes, then me. “Right. Fuck.”
“I would wear the towel forever,” I add, deadpan, “but I don’t want to scar you for life.”
She snorts. “Please. I’ve seen worse. One of our residents got naked in the middle of the ER once and started singing opera.”
“Was it better or worse than what’s happening now?” I ask.
She walks toward her dresser, muttering, “Slightly less awkward, believe it or not.”
I watch her dig around, and it’s pure goddamn torture. Her legs flex, that shirt rides up just enough to expose the danger zone, and I have to physically look away before I pop this towel clean off my body.
“Here,” she says, tossing me a pair of soft-looking sweats and a worn-in T-shirt that smells like her.
I catch them like they’re priceless artifacts.
“Thanks,” I mutter, throat dry.
“No problem,” she says, like it’s the easiest goddamn thing in the world. “Leave those by the door, I’ll toss them in the wash.”
I hesitate, glance down at the festering pile of street-flavored shame in my hands. “Uh. Okay.”
I do as I’m told, because what the hell else am I gonna do? Argue while half-naked in her hallway?
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me and I finally breathe.
I pull on the clothes she gave me—the T-shirt is soft and somehow smells exactly like comfort, like Carol’s shampoo and dryer sheets and a long exhale after a bad day.
It’s big enough to fit me, stretches across my chest without choking me, which is a miracle in itself.
The sweats are worn-in as hell. The waistband’s loose, like maybe it used to be tight but gave up after a few too many pizzas. And the legs? Yeah, they hit about three inches above my ankles like they’re staging a quiet rebellion against my height.
But it’s fine.
More than fine.
It’s the best goddamn outfit I’ve worn all week.
I step back out and immediately catch the low hum of her washer in the corner—she already started the load. My gross hoodie and pants are probably doing somersaults in there, drowning in detergent and her unexpected kindness.
She’s perched on this rickety little stool by her kitchen island, one knee up, elbow on the counter, stuffing her face with something that smells like sin in pasta form.
Steam’s still curling from the plate. Her golden hair’s a mess around her shoulders, and she’s eating like someone who’s been starving all day—which, knowing her, she probably has.
“Come eat,” she mumbles around a mouthful, fork stabbing into another bite. “It’s broccoli pasta.”
I don’t even hesitate. I walk over like gravity’s yanked me across the room.
“Did you cook this while I was showering or did it just appear out of fucking nowhere?”
She shrugs, chewing. “I meal-prep. Because unlike you, I don’t survive off hospital sandwiches and existential dread.”
I smirk, grabbing the extra plate she’s already set out for me. “Hey, I was trying to keep the tuna industry alive, alright?”