Page 46 of Lighting the Lamp
“See?” she says softly, stepping between my knees, a little smile playing on her lips. “You didn’t die.”
“Yet,” I mutter.
She ignores me, reaching for the shampoo. Warm water pours down the back of my neck while she massages the lather into my hair. Her nails scrape lightly across my scalp, and I sigh despite myself—equal parts relief and raw ache.
“I’m supposed to be strong,” I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can catch them. “I’m supposed to be the one who takes care of people.”
Her fingers pause for a fraction of a second before resuming their rhythm.
“You still are,” she says, rinsing the soap from my hair. “But even goalies need a damn backup sometimes.”
The water rolls down my scalp and across my face, trickling past my chin in rivulets. Every nerve still buzzes like a frayed wire, but it’s not as sharp as before. The pain is still there, but now, it’s not the only thing I feel.
She steps back before shutting off the water with a hollow thunk, and the silence that follows rings loud in my ears. Alise slips an arm out past the edge of the stall, reaching for a towel hanging safely on the rack just outside the spray. In one smooth motion, she drapes it around my shoulders, shielding me from the cool air. She moves on instinct, like this is something she has done a million times before, and then she steps out to dry herself quickly.
When she leans in to blot the towel across my chest, her hands pause over the monitor. She doesn’t try to adjust or move it, just pats carefully around the edges, gentle enough that the adhesive doesn’t pull.
“Is it bothering you?”
“Not really,” I admit, heat crawling up my neck. “Just… raw sometimes. The edges tug if I move wrong.”
Her fingers linger, featherlight through the towel. “Then we’ll keep it dry and clean. No water, no pulling. Got it?”
I huff out a shaky laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
She gives me a look that says she’s not joking, then finally pulls back, drying her own arms and hair with quick, efficient movements.“You ready to get some clothes on?”
Her voice is light and teasing, but it takes me a second to register the words because we’re standing inches apart. Both of us are naked and damp, steam curling around our skin like something sacred. Her hair is flat, a part of it having gotten wet in the shower, and her cheeks are flushed. Her chest rises and falls like she just remembered how close we are, like I just remembered, too.
She’s fucking beautiful, always has been. But here and now, taking care of me like it’s instinct? She’s devastating.
“Again, you could’ve bought me dinner first,” I mutter, attempting to keep it light and trying not to stare.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of something in her smile. Something warm. Something that makes me forget, just for a second, how much I hurt.
“Don’t tempt me,” she whispers under her breath, stepping closer and wrapping her fingers gently around my wrists, her grip steady and sure. “Okay. On three.”
I nod, and she braces herself beside me, one hand steady on my waist while I grip her shoulder like it’s the only solid thing in the world.
“One. Two. Three.”
We move slowly together, like we’ve done this a thousand times. A rhythm carved out of pain and quiet understanding. My legs tremble, pain lances through my hip and up my back, and I sway hard.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, not missing a beat.
And damn if she doesn’t. I bite back a groan, every nerve sparking, but I don’t pull away. She helps me out of the stall, drying my arms and legs with patient, deliberate care. I let her, even though everything in me screams to fight the vulnerability of it and pretend I don’t need her this much.
She gets me to the bed, then kneels beside me, drying my arms and legs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She acts as if taking care of me isn’t a burden. And I let her, even though every part of me wants to resist. I want to pretend I can still handle this on my own, but I can’t. I watch her move around my bedroom, opening drawers and rifling through the mess with quiet efficiency. She pulls out a pair of boxers and holds them up like a prize.
“I’m going to borrow these,” she says softly, disappearing into my closet and closing the door behind her.
And for a long moment, I just sit there, watching the door she disappeared behind. Suddenly, it hits me hard, in a way that leaves no room for denial. All the bullshit reasons I told myselffor keeping my distance—fear, timing, that maybe she didn’t feel the same—none of it matters anymore.
None of it ever really did because I can’t do this without her. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve never been able to. She has been the one who was always there for me, to help me put the pieces back together or to hold me up when I couldn’t hide away from the world any longer. She’s the only one who’s ever really seen me. Who’s looked past the armor, the jersey, the pressure, and cared anyway. I want to erase all the lines I thought I had to draw between us. If I’m being honest with myself, they were gone the second she stepped into that shower and held me like I mattered.
I don’t know what tomorrow looks like or what the hell is even wrong with me. My future is so up in the air right now that starting anything with anyone right now is a bad idea. But the one thing I know with bone-deep certainty is that I’m not getting through it without her, and I don’t even want to try.
When she steps out of the closet, she’s dressed in one of my long-sleeve Henleys, sleeves pushed up, and a pair of boxers. Her hair’s still damp, curling around her face like it’s reaching for something. In her arms, she’s carrying a pair of sweats, boxers, and a clean T-shirt folded with more care than I probably deserve.
