Soap and dirty thoughts

"I—I'm coming in, okay?! I'm not looking!" I warned, shielding my eyes like a dramatic Victorian maiden and twisting the doorknob.

The scent of soap and steam hit me first. And then I peeked through my fingers, and yelped.

He was half up, one knee on the floor, gripping the edge of the tub, nothing around his waist and the T-shirt abandoned at his side.

"What happened?!" I rushed in, knees skidding a little as I dropped beside him.

He grunted, still catching his breath. "Soap slipped… went to grab it… ended up slipping too."

My stomach twisted. "Oh my god. I'm sorry. I should've—God, I feel like an asshole."

"Don't." His voice was firm. Flat. "Already feel pathetic enough without you apologizing."

My chest ached. He looked exhausted. Still wet. Hair dripping. Shoulders tense. And… okay yeah, still stupidly good-looking, but also clearly struggling.

"No," I said, squaring my voice. "I'll help."

"Kina—" he tried, but I raised a hand like don't you even.

"Shut up. You're slippery, naked, and very breakable right now. Where do you need to wash?"

He turned his head, smirking. "You sure you wanna know?"

I smacked his shoulder with a scowl. "Dont make me take it back."

"Damn. Thought you were finally confessing."

"Don't flatter yourself," I muttered as I reached for the washcloth and grabbed the half soap bar that I didn't even know existed in my bathroom until now from the corner. "Turn around."

He did, surprisingly obedient, sitting on the small stool I'd placed there hours ago just in case. I knelt behind him, trying not to stare at the expanse of his back, which was both glorious and unfair.

The cloth hit his skin, warm and soapy, and I dragged it across the wide stretch of muscle slowly. Carefully. Totally not thinking about the way he was built like a Greek tragedy.

The tattoos were clearer now. Black ink winding up from his hip, curling around his ribs, disappearing somewhere I really shouldn't be curious about. There was a serpent wrapping his side, its tail tangled in roses, fangs bared like it wanted to bite something—or someone. Above his shoulder blade was a skeletal hand holding a dagger, sharp and almost too real-looking.

I almost traced it.

Almost.

But I stopped myself.

Nope. No touching. This wasn't some "admire your fugitive" hour. This was penance.

I scrubbed faster.

Think of Aaron, I begged myself. Aaron, your emotionally unavailable, mysteriously cold boss-boyfriend who never says more than two sentences and wears suits like he's modeling for vengeance.

He had that little squint when he was reading reports. Never smiled. Walked like he owned the floor and the company. And those grey eyes—

Wait. Wait no.

I blinked.

I was scrubbing Kieran's stupid back again. The man who made me want to evaporate from secondhand humiliation and now firsthand… god-knows-what. I poured warm water from the cup I'd filled earlier and rinsed him off carefully.

"Your hair needs washing too," I blurted without thinking, staring at the way the damp strands curled slightly at the ends. Longer than I thought. Probably hadn't had a proper wash in days.

He tilted his head back a little. "You offering?"

I rolled my eyes. "Don't make me change my mind."

His mouth tugged up at the corners, but he leaned forward over the tub, waiting.

I let out a breath and reached for the shampoo.

I could do this. Just shampoo. Just hair. Just his stupid, thick, stupidly touchable hair.

And definitely not the way his tattoo inked over his back like a secret map.

Or the way his voice got all quiet and low when he said my name earlier.

Nope.

No thoughts. Just shampoo.

Just… lots and lots of dangerously large injured man shampooing.

The shampoo smelled like coconut and something faintly citrusy, refreshing just how I often liked it but it definitely didn't belong on someone who looked like he murdered people for a living.

I squeezed a bit into my hands and lathered it up, silently prepping myself for contact.

This was fine. Totally platonic. I washed my roommate's hair back in college all the time. Kieran wasn't a maniacal war machine of shredded muscle, scars, and criminal tattoos.

Nope.

He was a sickly, injured man in my bathtub.

That was it.

I slid my fingers into his hair.

Oh. God. It was thick. Silky. A little wavy near the ends. Still damp from his fall, but it felt soft and warm under my palms, like touching him might cause my whole body to short-circuit.

I massaged carefully, nails lightly grazing his scalp as I worked the shampoo in. And he… exhaled.

A low, raspy breath, like it felt good.

I froze.

"You okay?" I asked, voice higher than usual. Too casual. Too fake.

"Mhm," he murmured, leaning into my hands like a cat being scratched behind the ears. "Didn't expect you to be so gentle."

I blinked at the back of his head. "Well, I didn't expect you to be so high maintenance, so here we are."

He chuckled, deep and smooth, like warm whiskey sliding down my spine. "Can't help it if I like being touched."

"I swear to god, I will dump this cup of water on you and not say sorry."

His smirk deepened, but he didn't reply. Just closed his eyes and let me keep washing.

It was weird. The silence. Not awkward. Not tense.

Just… quiet.

The kind of quiet that buzzed under your skin, like something was lurking underneath it. Something heavy and slow, like when a thunderstorm rolls in, and you just know the air's about to crack open.

And in that quiet, my traitor brain started to wander.

His shoulders had dropped a little, no longer held up like he was ready to fight someone. His back still glistened from the rinse, that inked serpent curling up toward the nape of his neck. I could see the way his hair clung to his temple, the pulse at the side of his throat, the faint scar just beneath his ear.

He looked calm. Safe, somehow.

Like maybe, just for a second, he wasn't a threat at all.

My fingers slowed. I started rinsing.

"Liking the view?" he murmured, voice slicing through my brain like a knife through butter.

I jerked like he'd electrocuted me. "I—I wasn't—! You—! Stop talking!"

"You've been sighing and touching my head like I'm your favorite stress ball."

"I—!" I was too flustered to form words.

He tilted his head back, still facing away, and said with a lazy drawl, "It's okay. I'm flattered. I didn't realize you liked me this much."

"I don't! I'm just trying to help you not die in my bathroom!"

"By massaging me lovingly while I'm naked?"

"I'm going to shoot myself."

He chuckled again, and I might've dumped a little too much water down his scalp for revenge.

I finished rinsing, huffing as I wiped his forehead with a soft towel and let him lean forward to finish drying.

And then...

BRRRRRRZZZZZT.

My phone buzzed from outside.

I froze.

That ringtone. That particular short, clipped buzz. The one I'd set for...

Aaron.

My stomach dropped.

Why is he calling me right now? No. Wait. Kina, he's your boyfriend isn't he?

Kieran looked over his shoulder, still towel-draped, water glistening down his neck. "You gonna get that?"

"Nope!" I chirped, standing so fast I almost kicked the bucket over. "Nope nope nope, it's probably spam."

He didn't say anything but his brows pinched slightly.

"I should go." I cleared my throat, backing up like I was defusing a bomb. "You're clean. You're conscious. Try not to slip on the way out."

He didn't argue. Just leaned forward, the t-shirt covering his lap again, that smug mouth curved with some unreadable emotion.

"Thanks, Princess."

I stopped. Turned slightly.

For a second, he didn't look like the dangerous guy I found bleeding at the alley. He looked… tired. Soft. Like someone who hadn't had someone touch him like that in a long time.

And then he added, "Though if you wanted to finish what you started, I wouldn't complain."

I squeaked and bolted out like my dignity was on fire.