76. It’s Just Water
It’s Just Water
Idon’t know when I fell asleep, but when I wake up in the afternoon, finally crashing after almost forty-eight hours straight without rest, he’s gone. Understandably. He stayed on the line. Let me breathe. Let me be.
It’s more than I feel I deserve after hurting him over and over again, pushing him away.
It felt unfair to reach out, but I don’t regret it.
Whatever strength he lent me, it’s worked.
I feel like I can at least shower, try to get through the day.
Go see Mama and Tata. Try to help. As if there’s any way to help this.
The sudden ache to ask Piotr what to do hits hard, and all I can hear is him in my head, calling me siostra.
The sound breaks me open again; the sobs come heavy and fast. Rain starts slow, a whisper against the windows, before it decides to pour.
It matches how I feel: everything hanging around my neck, in my chest. I check my phone. He’d sent a text hours ago.
Keep sleeping. I love you.
A smile wakes up along my face, maybe the first one since we lost Piotr. I head to the shower and try to stop the tears, to stop the downpour inside.
I’m still damp-haired and eyes burning, when the knock comes, followed by a voice saying my name.
For a second I think I’ve imagined it, an echo of last night’s dream, of him on the phone saying it like something tender.
Then it comes again, harder this time, urgency in the voice.
When I open the door, he’s standing there.
Rafe. Drenched.
Hair plastered to his forehead, hoodie weighed down, the shirt beneath clinging to his skin, breath steaming in the brittle cold of late January.
“The taxi was stuck in traffic,” he says, voice hoarse, barely above the rain. “So I ran.” He laughs between shivering gasps. “It’s just water. It’s nothing.”
I can’t move. I can’t think. He’s here, the man I told myself not to call, the voice I fell asleep to.
“H—how are you here?” I manage.
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head, water dripping from his hair. “I just left. They told me to stay, to finish the next stop. I don’t give a fuck about any of it. The tour, the contracts, the lawyers, they can have every cent.”
His chest rises hard beneath the soaked fabric. “None of it matters, everything means nothing if I can't—I just needed to see you. I couldn’t stand to look at my hands on the piano knowing they should be holding you.”
He steps forward, then stops himself, jaw tight, hands trembling, like he’s fighting every instinct not to reach for me.
“I want to touch you so badly,” he whispers, voice cracking. “But I need to know. I need to know if it’s still okay. If I’m allowed. If you just want to talk, I can do th—”
That’s what breaks me, how loving he is, how gentle.
The fact that he’s right here and still waiting for permission to touch me.
Something in me just goes. I cross the space between us, grab fistfuls of his soaked clothes, and pull him down.
The sobs come before the words do. They shake through me, hit the air between us, and drown in the storm.
He catches me instantly, arms closing around me, clutching my body like he’s worried I’ll fall or that I’m just a dream. I feel his heartbeat against my cheek, wild and uneven. He murmurs something, nonsense at first, then, “It’s okay, Kas. I'm here. I’ve got you now.”
The rain is cold, relentless, soaking through everything. My hair sticks to my face, to his hands when he tries to brush it back. Whatever was holding us apart finally breaks. He leans in, and I rise to meet him.
The kiss is everything we need, a mixture of rain and the salt of our tears, quiet breaths full of forgiveness.
His hands find my face, mine find his, and for a heartbeat there’s no world outside this doorway.
Just two people who ran out of ways to hurt each other and finally found one way to heal, together.
He’s so tender as his lips find the corner of mine, then pass along my cheek, down to my neck and back again. I chase after the pattern, after him.
We’ve both been starving for this. We pull desperately at one another, unable to get enough.
Our lips crash again, the kiss deepening, as I slowly open myself to him, begging for more.
Rain coats our lips, pooled pockets collecting in the contours of our faces, but we don't hold back. The deluge falls away in rivulets with our movements, dancing along our skin, joining us in the madness of our need. Still, we don’t dare stop, refusing to let go.
When we finally break apart, forced to by the will of our deprived lungs, he presses his forehead to mine.
We’re both trembling, with love, with cold, with unspoken grief.
“We should get inside,” he murmurs. I nod.
When he pulls me across the threshold, it feels too far.
I need him closer.
He lets me cling, says nothing, just breathes with me until the shaking turns to stillness.
I don’t want to let go of him, not yet. Not ever.
His clothes are dripping, the floor slick beneath us, but he doesn’t seem to care.
When he tries to pull back, I tighten my grip.
He lets out an amused chuckle and cradles my head against him.
Finally he whispers, “I’m supposed to be taking care of you, and I’m failing. You’re freezing.”
“So are you,” I manage.
He brushes a wet strand of hair from my cheek. “I’m not the one that matters right now.”
We end up in the shower, fully clothed at first, until he coaxes the soaked layers away, gentle, practical.
The water runs hot enough to sting. Steam curls around us, the sound of rain replaced by the rush of it against tile.
My skin starts to remember what warmth feels like.
When we step out, he’s got a towel around his waist and another in his hands.
He rubs me down with brisk, ridiculous energy, buffing me like he’s polishing a car.
I can’t help it, I laugh.
He freezes mid-motion, towel still in his hands. His eyes soften. “God,” he says, “I’ve missed that sound.”
He glides the towel along my waist, then drifts upward, opening it like a blanket, draping it over my shoulders before pulling me into him.
My arms find his back, warm and inviting.
We stay like that for a long moment, the towel around us, the heat rising again, this time from something gentler than grief.
When he pulls back, his hands slide along my shoulders, down my arms, drying the last of the dampness. Then he loops the towel around my front, like the one at his own waist, tucking it in neatly before leaning down to kiss me. It's soft, cautious, like I might break if he presses harder.
“Go get dressed,” he murmurs.
“After I put your clothes in the dryer,” I say. “Unless you want to walk around nude. Or wear mine.”
His mouth curves. “Not put off by either option. But yeah, the dryer sounds smart." He lets the implication sit between us before changing the subject. "Coffee or tea? Pick your poison.”
“Tea,” I say with a small nod, a warm smile crossing my lips, like we stepped back into this without thinking.
He heads for the kitchen while I gather his soaked clothes from the bathroom floor.
A task, something to steady myself on. They leave a trail of water across the hallway despite my best efforts to ring them out in the shower.
I toss them into the washer and start the cycle; the machine whirs to life, loud and ordinary.
He glances over his shoulder, smiling faintly. “Washer and dryer? You're trying to keep me naked for a while, huh?”
It pulls another laugh out of me, small but alive.
For a moment, just a moment, the heaviness in my chest eases.
The ache, the guilt, the storm of Piotr’s absence all drift far enough away that I can look at him, standing there barefoot, towel wrapped around his waist, hair dripping onto the tile, and remember what it’s like to feel light.
To feel anything other than loss or grief. Just him. His voice. That radiant smile.
The kettle bubbles behind us, I try to pour the tea, hands still trembling a little, until he insists on taking over.
I watch him pour the steaming water and steep the tea, taking note of the way his hand twirls the spoon, the way he licks it when he's done before putting it in the sink.
Every motion a gift, one that makes my heart ache at the sight of him.
Every ordinary thing that I thought we'd lost forever is right here.
When he takes the cups over to the couch, I follow.
He sits first, towel knotted low on his hips, and I drop beside him, matching him in stubborn towel union.
He raises a brow and passes me a mug before he leans back.
“Not planning to get dressed?”
“Solidarity,” I say. “You’re wet, I’m wet. Seems fair.” A teasing grin rests on my lips.
He smiles, that beautiful, wrecked kind I missed so much. “Fine by me. As long as I can hold you, so you stay warm.”
“I insist on it, in fact.”
He shifts, pulling me against his chest, and for a while we just sit like that, tea cooling in our hands.
My body begins to uncoil. I talk instead about work, about how Conrad told me to take as long as I need for the funeral, how kind the partners have been.
I tell him about Amelka, how small and perfect she is, how Piotr cried more than Aga.
I show him the picture, her tiny face framed in a hospital blanket.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, tracing the image with his thumb.
“She is.” My throat tightens. “I can’t wait for her to grow up. I can’t wait for her to… to know about him.” I trip over the word him, and then I scramble for another topic.