Page 16 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“We’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

I blink through the haze. The warmth from the water is a shock after the cold dirt and chaos. My breath trembles. “I don’t… I’m just…” Words knot in my throat, useless.

Gabe stands a few feet away, his hands loose at his sides, eyes kind but serious. “If you need help, just say the word,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “We’ll stay fully covered. Just boxers, nothing more. We’re not here to take anything from you. We’re here to help.”

“This would be a hell of a lot easier if we were in there with you,” Hank adds gently. “To keep you steady. To help wash the grime off without hurting you more.”

I hesitate. Their presence is big—both of them tall, broad, imposing—but it doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels… solid. Like safety I haven’t felt in too long.

“Okay,” I whisper. My voice is a rasp, but they hear me.

They move slow.

No sudden gestures, no prying eyes. Just slow movement as they strip off tactical gear, boots thudding against the rubber floor. They step into the shower stall with me when they’re down to black boxer briefs. The glass walls fog instantly, mist curling around us like smoke.

Hank stands to my right, one hand hovering near my shoulder in case I wobble again. Gabe moves to my left, adjusting the spray so it doesn’t hit my face too hard. Their bodies radiate heat, but they never crowd me. Never touch without a clear, careful warning.

Water sluices over us, carving rivers through thelayers of dirt caked on my skin. My hair clings to my neck, mud and blood swirling down the drain. I shiver, not from the cold, but from the slow unwinding of terror and release of adrenaline.

My body starts to believe it’s safe.

Hank’s palm brushes lightly along my spine, steadying me when I sway again.

“We’ve got you,” he says again, and this time, I believe him. “Let go, luv,” he murmurs.

Gabe lathers soap between his hands, his touch gentle as he washes away the layers of dirt and fatigue. His fingers work carefully through the tangled knots of my hair with unhurried patience.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Hank assures me. “We’re here.”

Surrounded by their steady presence, I surrender to the moment. Warmth envelops me, and a semblance of peace settles within me for the first time in what feels like forever.

I close my eyes against the sting of the water—the heat, the sensation of Gabe’s hands weaving through the strands of my hair. I try not to think about what’s happening, but my body betrays me—shivering, aching for more than just comfort.

Muscles begin to unravel, tension slipping away piece by piece. Without meaning to, I lean into Gabe’s hands and into the solid press of Hank’s grip.

It should feel wrong, being naked like this—raw, exposed—in front of strangers. My clothes are on the floor, left in a crumpled heap. Some part of me whispers that I should shield myself, hide, but instead, a strange calm settles over me, soft and heavy.

I try to summon embarrassment, the usual tightening of self-protection—but it isn’t there. What rises in its place feels weightless, instinctual, like an acceptance I don’t quite understand.

Strangely, it feels like we’ve done this a thousand times before—even though we haven’t.

Soap lathers warm against my shoulders. Hank’s hands move with exquisite care, each motion calculated and restrained. His palms skim across my skin without lingering, every movement steady and efficient. He avoids the raw spaces on my body—the bruises,the scars—but he doesn’t recoil from them. Instead, he traces a path around them, like acknowledging a map but choosing another route.

Behind me, Gabe combs his fingers through my hair again, working the last of the soap out with the same deliberate care. The cascade washes over the back of my neck, the sensation grounding me in a way I can’t explain.

Neither of them speak much. When they do, it’s simple and clear.

“Lift your arm.”

“Turn this way.”

“Good girl,” Hank murmurs, his voice low but without the edge of authority I expect. It’s firm but unfailingly gentle, leaving no room for hesitation but somehow wrapping me in comfort.

I respond without thinking, as though the space between their words and my body doesn’t exist. My movements feel automatic—turning when they guide me, leaning where they direct, lifting one leg and then another. There’s relief in not having to decide what comes next.

There’s care in their movements that I can’t name. Maybe it’s reverence, or maybe just patience. Whatever it is, it holds me together instead of pulling me apart. They treat me like I’m fragile but not broken.

And that means the world to me.

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