Page 36 of Goose's Wren

His eyes flick up to mine, asking for permission without saying it.

I nod once.

And then his hands are on me.Gentle and steady.The complete opposite of the ones that hurt me.

He wipes the blood from my cheek with slow, careful strokes, like I’m something breakable.Like I matter.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper, not because I don’t want him to but because it’s hard to believe anyone would.

His eyes lift to mine, intense and quiet.“Yes, I do.”

The cloth moves down to the cut on my lip, then across the bruises on my collarbone.He never asks what happened in that trailer.

But I can feel it in the way his jaw is clenched, the way his eyes darken with every mark he uncovers.

He rinses the cloth again, his hands shaking just slightly.I reach out without thinking and lay my fingers on his wrist.

“Goose,” I whisper.“I’m okay now.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

“No,” he says.“You’re not.But you will be.I swear it.”

A tear slips down my cheek, but it’s not from pain this time.It’s from something that feels dangerously close to hope.

When he’s finished cleaning me up, he gently dries my skin with a soft towel, then lifts my chin with two fingers.

When he reaches for the hem of my shirt, my first reaction is to flinch.My hands shoot out, grabbing his wrists, and my breath catching hard in my throat.

The echo of Tim’s hands, his roughness, his violence, burns too fresh in my memory.Goose freezes the moment I react, his eyes lifting to mine with nothing but patience and something like pain.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says softly.“Not ever.”

I already know that.Deep down, I do.But my body’s still wired with fear at the moment.My instincts trained to brace for the worst.I force myself to nod, even as my heart races.

He doesn’t rush me.He just waits, warm hands steady, eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing that matters in the world.After a long moment, I let go of his wrists and lift my arms.

He carefully removes my shirt, his touch slow and reverent, not like he’s undressing me, but like he’s unburdening me.

He helps me out of the rest of my clothes, then reaches into the shower to start the water, checking the temperature before turning back to me.I don’t look at myself in the mirror.I already know what I’ll see.Bruises, cuts, shadows that don’t fade.

He steps into the shower first, then holds out a hand to me.

The warm water rushes over us, and for a moment I just stand there, breathing.Letting it rinse away the last several hours.The last few years.

He’s quiet as he grabs a washcloth, lathering soap with calm, deliberate movements before bringing it to my skin.His touch is more than gentle.Every stroke is soft, careful, almost like an apology he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

He washes the dried blood from my arms, then my shoulders and my back.His fingers graze across every bruise like he wants to memorize them, like he wishes he could take them from me and wear them himself.

And something in me shifts.

Under the warm water, under his hands, I start to feel again.Not fear.Not numbness.

But want.

My body reacts before my brain catches up.My breath hitches, heat curling low in my belly as his hands glide across my stomach, the sides of my hips.I don’t move away.

I don’t want to.

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