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mercedary · 14 days ago

Note

request: something based off this post with the tsh character of your choosing <3 bless you in advance

https://www.tumblr.com/morallyambiguous/786673644104531968/most-beautiful-tweet-in-the-world

For being so kind and letting me choose the character for this scenario, I decided to write the whole class for you!💞

Henry

The water is hot, almost too hot, the kind that turns your skin pink and scalded, but you don’t move. You sit still with your knees pulled to your chest, head resting back against the rim of the porcelain tub. There is something primal about the way the heat slips into your bones, like it’s unlocking something. You think, dimly, that maybe if you stay long enough, you'll dissolve.

Henry is quiet in the other room. You can hear the soft rustling of papers being folded and organized with precision, then the sizzling of a burning match. The biting scent of his cigarettes threads through the crack under the door. It shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. Everything about Henry is wrong in theory, and yet—there is nothing safer.

Eventually, the door opens. He doesn’t ask permission. He never does. You don’t want him to.

He steps into the bathroom like a ghost, pale and composed, all angular grace and shadowed eyes. His gaze moves over you once, unhurried, and then down to the water. “It’s too hot,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, and kneels beside the tub.

“You’ll get wet,” you say, though your voice is barely audible.

“I don’t mind.”

He rolls his sleeves up, methodical, revealing forearms you know too well—lined with faint veins, pale skin dotted with barely-there freckles. He dips his hand into the water, winces slightly. “Are you trying to boil yourself?”

You close your eyes. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he reaches for the faucet, cools the water with careful adjustments, and then turns it off again. The silence stretches long, but never empty. Not with him.

When he speaks next, it’s soft. “Do you want me to wash your hair?”

The question hangs in the air like incense, delicate and reverent. You nod, once.

There’s movement—his steps light against the tile—and then the sound of the small wooden stool being dragged to the side of the tub. He sits behind you, his knees brushing your back.

He lifts the silver pitcher. You remember the first time he used it—how out of place it had seemed in his spartan, monastic home, and yet now it feels like ritual. He tilts it with surgeon’s precision, and the water pours gently over your crown.

The moment it hits you, something inside you unspools.

Your throat tightens.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Henry never asks. He waits. He observes. He studies the world like it’s written in Greek and he’s the only one who knows the language.

His fingers find your scalp, and he begins to rub—slow, sure, unrelenting. His touch is precise, not indulgent. Clinical, almost. But there's tenderness underneath it, the kind he pretends not to possess. You’ve seen it in the way he makes you tea and a sandwich when you forget to eat, the way he sets your books aside when you fall asleep reading, the way he waits for you to come undone but never forces it.

He works the shampoo into your hair, and you lean back into him without realizing it. His chest is solid, unmoving, the warm cotton of his shirt brushing your spine. It anchors you. The pressure of his hands never falters.

“I could start crying,” you whisper, almost surprised by your own voice.

“I know.”

You blink against the water on your lashes, not sure if it's from the pitcher or from you. “Is that... normal?”

He pauses, then resumes washing. “No. I don’t think so.”

You laugh, short and broken, and then you do cry. Not loud. No sobbing. Just quiet tears that spill over and down your cheeks, unremarkable in the wet. He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t stop his hands either—just keeps moving with the same gentleness, the same unshaken rhythm.

“I did things,” you murmur, voice barely held together. “Bad things.”

“I know,” he says again, simply, like it changes nothing.

“And things were done to me.”

He rinses your hair in silence.

“I know,” he says.

His hands move to your temples, thumbs smoothing over your scalp as if he could ease the memory right out of your bones. You know he can’t. But still, you let yourself pretend.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Neither do I,” he replies, and something in your chest twists. You tilt your head back, and he catches you, his hand cupping the base of your skull. His eyes meet yours, sharp and tired and ancient.

There’s no pity in them. No apology. Just understanding. A quiet sort of solidarity, like two people who’ve both walked through fire and never expected to come out clean.

“I love you,” you say, and you don’t know if it’s the heat or the water or the way he touched your hair like it was sacred, but it feels true in a way not much does.

“I know,” he answers, voice low, reverent, like he's speaking in a cathedral.

He runs the last of the water through your hair, combs it out with his fingers until the tangles disappear. When he’s finished, he wraps you in a towel like a shrine being covered, careful not to startle whatever has just been released.

He helps you up. Holds you steady when your knees wobble. And in that moment—naked, shivering, clean—you feel more held than you have in years.

Charles

The bathwater is tepid by the time you hear his knock.

Not a sharp rap, but the soft knock he uses when he doesn’t want to interrupt your silence, only announce himself. You don’t say anything. You don't need to. Charles lets himself in.

He kicks the door shut behind him and leans against it, as if he's afraid the outside world might follow him in. His sweater is worn and soft, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and the scent that follows him is familiar—bourbon, cedar smoke, and something subtler, like the pages of an old book.

He looks at you with that slow, unreadable expression, the one he wears when he's not sure if you're drowning or just floating. “You’ve been in there a while.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. That’s never been how he works. His concern comes in the form of a gesture, an offering, something small and quiet and unspoken. And now, it comes as a question, half under his breath:

“Want me to wash your hair?”

You nod, not because you need it, but because you want the weight of his hands on your skull. You want to feel something that isn’t ache.

He doesn’t speak again. He kneels next to the tub with the deliberate grace he always seems to carry, like he’s moving through some ancient ritual. His hands are steady as he pours warm water over your head, brushing your hair back from your forehead with his fingers before it clings to your scalp.

It’s tender. So terribly tender it makes something inside you start to crack.

You breathe out, long and thin. “Every time you do this,” you say, voice shaking, “I feel like I’m going to cry.”

Charles’s voice is low, rough around the edges, like it’s been left out in the cold too long. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

His fingers move through your hair, gentle but not hesitant. He rubs the shampoo in slowly, thoroughly, like he's memorizing the shape of your skull. You think of how Charles is with people — easy with a smile, impossible to know, positively angelic. Always half a step removed, a boy who looks like he was born with poetry in his blood and rot beneath his fingernails.

And yet here he is, on the floor of a cramped bathroom, kneeling beside the tub like he’s come to worship. And it’s not a performance. Not with you.

You try to keep it in — the heat behind your eyes, the knot in your chest. But it leaks out anyway. A quiet sniff. A shallow breath. And then it unravels.

You cry.

Not sobbing — just a slow, quiet weeping that slips from your throat like water down a drain. He says nothing, but his hand stills on your head for a second, just enough to let you know he hears it. Then he resumes, fingers gentler now, as if he’s worried he might break you.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper.

He lets the water run again, cupping it in his hand and pouring it down your neck. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I’ve done terrible things,” you say, like confession might save you.

Charles rinses the suds from your hair with agonizing care. “So have I.”

“And terrible things have been done to me.”

At that, his hand stops completely. You feel the stillness in him. Like he’s holding his breath. His fingers graze your temple once, thumb smoothing over your hairline in a gesture so delicate it makes you shiver.

“I know,” he says. His voice is hoarse. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”

You don’t ask how. You suspect he sees it in you — the same way you see it in him. There’s something in both of you that’s broken, but not dead. A bruised thing with a pulse. Something that keeps coming back to life even when it shouldn’t.

He finishes rinsing your hair and reaches for a towel, wrapping it around your shoulders like a blanket. You’re trembling, though you hadn’t realized it. He notices.

“Come here,” he says, almost inaudible.

You shift in the water, and he holds out his hand. When you take it, he pulls you forward with quiet strength, cradling your wet form against his chest. You cling to him — cold, soaked, sobbing now into the softness of his sweater.

He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Not tightly. Not possessively. Just — completely.

He rests his chin on your head. Breathes in your hair like it’s a prayer.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs.

“But I’m not clean,” you say, like a child. “No matter how long I stay in this bath.”

Charles is quiet for a long time.

Then: “Neither am I.”

Your breath catches.

He brushes your wet hair back again and kisses your temple — a kiss that isn’t romantic, not really. It's something older, sadder. A benediction. A wish.

“I don’t want you clean,” he says. “I want you here.”

And you believe him. Maybe for the first time, you believe someone when they say they love you not in spite of what you’ve done, but with it.

He helps you out of the tub, dries you off without a word. You dress slowly, mechanically, as he drains the water. It gurgles as it leaves — like something dying, or something finally released.

When you turn to look at him, his eyes are already on you. Not soft, but steady.

“Come to bed,” he says. “You don’t have to talk.”

And when you do, curling into the space beside him that always seems to be waiting, he wraps an arm around your waist, breathes in deep like he’s grounding himself in the shape of you.

You don’t cry again.

Not tonight.

But if you did, you know — Charles would not look away.

Bunny

The bath is lukewarm now, but you don’t care. You’ve been in it too long — skin pruned, water cloudy. You're slouched low, chin on your knees, arms around your shins like a child trying to make herself small. You can’t tell if the ache behind your eyes is from the heat or from everything else.

There’s a knock.

Sharp, rapid — three times, then the handle rattles.

“Hey—hey, you in there?” Bunny’s voice. Loud, as always. “I need to brush my teeth or whatever. Unless you’re dead. In which case, I definitely need to come in.”

You manage, barely: “Occupied.”

A pause. You hear the creak of him leaning against the door.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer.

Which, apparently, is enough permission. The door opens with a squeal. He peeks his head in — a mess of blond hair, slightly damp, shirt wrinkled from being slept in, tie askew as if he hasn’t realized he’s still wearing it.

He catches sight of you in the tub and goes silent for a second — rare for him.

“Jesus. You look like something out of a tragic painting. You’re not gonna drown yourself, are you? Because listen, I just ate an entire Reuben and I really cannot handle a dramatic rescue right now.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

“Come on,” he says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. “You’re doing that thing again. The sad hermit thing.”

“I just wanted to be alone.”

“Well, bad news.” He claps his hands together once, then rubs them like he’s about to sell you something. “You’ve got company. Certified excellent company. Bunny Corcoran, bather of maidens, bestower of clean scalps. How’s that for timing?”

You blink up at him. “Did you just offer to wash my hair?”

He gives you a lopsided grin and shrugs off his coat. “Why not? I’ve got excellent technique. Did a semester of barbering in Boy Scouts. Badge and everything.”

“That’s not real.”

“Everything I say is real,” he says indignantly. “You just don’t believe me because I have the face of a cherub and the manners of a lunatic. Now. Scooch forward, make room for Bunny the Magnificent.”

You raise an eyebrow but move forward in the tub.

He perches behind you, ungracefully, socks getting wet as he splashes one foot in. “Damn it,” he mutters, as his clothes get soaked. “I swear, every time I do something nice I end up soaking wet or morally compromised.”

You feel the water shift as he leans forward, one hand cupping your forehead.

“All right, brace yourself.”

He pours water gently over your hair — surprisingly gently. It trickles down your scalp, warm and slow. His free hand catches the strands as they fall forward.

“See?” he says. “Better than a spa. And I don’t even charge. Though if you want to tip in kisses or baked goods, I’m open.”

You close your eyes.

Then his fingers are in your hair — a bit clumsy, more enthusiasm than skill — but careful. He hums while he works, some old march, off-key and under his breath. You can feel his knee bumping your back now and then, the occasional splash as he reaches for more water.

After a while, you go quiet again. He notices.

“Hey,” he says softly, still running his fingers through your hair. “What’s with the silence? That usually means you’re thinking sad thoughts. Which I strictly forbid in my presence.”

“I feel like crying,” you whisper.

He freezes for a moment.

Then: “Oh.”

Water drips off your nose. You sniff. You don’t mean to. You really, really didn’t want to cry in front of Bunny, of all people. You expect a joke — some dumb crack about tears and bathwater and feminine hysteria.

But instead, he says:

“Well, go ahead. It’s not like you are going to get me all wet.”

His voice wobbles between teasing and awkward concern. You laugh, which turns into a half-sob. He doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t tell you to stop.

“You’re really doing it,” he says quietly, and you can’t tell if he’s proud or afraid. “You’re really crying.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke.

“Why? You think I haven’t cried before? Hell, I cried during Old Yeller. And once because I dropped a hoagie.”

You laugh again, tears falling faster.

“I’ve done terrible things,” you say.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he sighs, starting to rinse your hair again. “Join the club. There’s punch and cookies.”

You shake your head. “No, I mean—really. Bad things. I don’t know if I deserve—”

“You deserve a damn shampoo, that’s what you deserve,” he says, pouring more water. “You think I’d be in here soaking my clothes and serenading you with my excellent singing voice if you didn’t?”

You go quiet again. His voice drops a little, softer now:

“You’ve had bad things happen. I know. I can tell. Even when you smile, it looks like it hurts.”

Your chest clenches.

“I’m not good,” you whisper.

Bunny exhales, rests his chin lightly on your shoulder. “I know.” he says. “But I like you. Maybe that counts for something.”

His hands are still in your hair. Your back against his chest now, his cheek pressing to the top of your head. He’s warm and real and solid, if a bit damp and ridiculous.

You let out one last breath.

“I love you, you know,” you say, quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I do.” He says with a voice not quite steady.

And then, more Bunny-like, with a laugh that sounds too much like a plea:

“And I love you too, so you better not die in this bathtub, or I’m gonna have to write a really awkward poem about it.”

Francis

Francis insists on bath oil.

He unscrews the bottle with a flourish, as if he’s about to anoint a saint, not fill the air with lavender and bergamot. “Honestly, if we’re going to be tragic, we may as well be fragrant,” he says, tone dry as vermouth. You’re not sure whether to laugh or roll your eyes, so you do both.

The tub is enormous — claw-footed, porcelain, deep enough to drown in, which you’ve thought about more than once. The whole thing feels like a painting you’ve wandered into: antique tiles, melting candles, the soft clink of the glass he brought in with him. Scotch, of course. Always scotch.

You slide into the water first. It stings a little, hotter than you’d normally dare. But Francis likes extremes, even in temperature. He watches you settle, then steps in behind you with a sigh that seems too old for someone his age. But then, everything about him feels inherited — like he was born already weary.

The water rises around him, and you shift so your back rests against his chest. He hums something — Mahler, maybe — and you can feel it reverberate through your spine.

You’ve been quiet too long. He notices.

“Is this a brooding silence,” he murmurs, “or a poetic one?”

You don’t answer. You’re too tired.

“Ah. Brooding, then.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder. His fingers trail along your arm, absently, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your bones. Francis is always touching, but never by accident. He’s affectionate in the way some people collect art — carefully, with practiced appreciation and a certain fear of permanence.

“You want me to do your hair?”

The question startles you. Not because it’s strange, but because it’s so simple.

“...Yes,” you say, and your voice cracks on it.

He doesn’t comment. Just reaches for the crystal bottle of shampoo, the one with a French name and a pretentious label, like most things he owns.

The first touch of his fingers in your hair makes something loosen in your chest.

He works the shampoo in gently, precisely, the way he does everything. You can feel the rings on his fingers slide over your scalp, cool and delicate, and you wonder — not for the first time — how someone like Francis ended up surrounded by blood and guilt.

His voice breaks the silence, half-sarcastic but soft. “You know, you have the kind of hair Botticelli would paint. Assuming, of course, you weren’t weeping into your own lap like some Renaissance Ophelia.”

You let out a breath. “I’m not crying.”

“You’re always nearly crying. I find it rather romantic.”

“I find it exhausting.”

“Well, we can’t all be charmingly aloof.”

“I’m not trying to be—”

“I know,” he says, and the edge in his voice disappears. His hands move slower now, massaging behind your ears, through the nape of your neck. “I know.”

Your throat tightens. You grip the side of the tub to steady yourself.

“I feel like I’m falling apart,” you whisper. “Like there’s nothing solid left.”

He says nothing for a moment. Then, in a voice so low you barely catch it:

“Same.”

The admission sits between you like a second body in the bath. You tilt your head back, feel the warmth of him behind you, the way his fingers pause — just for a second — in your hair.

“You hide it better,” you say.

He exhales a laugh. “Darling, I’ve been hiding things since before I had things to hide.”

You press your lips together, try not to break. “I don’t think I’m good,” you admit.

“Oh, well. None of us are. We just pretend we’re interesting instead.”

His hand brushes your jaw as he tilts your head to rinse your hair. You close your eyes and let it happen — the water falling in sheets down your back, the clean smell of lavender and soap and Francis. He never rushes, never fumbles. His touch is maddeningly careful, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he isn’t precise enough.

“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly. You don’t even know what you mean. For being sad, maybe. For dragging him down with you. For not being someone easier to hold.

Francis rinses your hair without another word, then leans forward until you can feel his breath on your shoulder.

“I don’t need you to be sorry,” he says. “I need you to still be here.”

You shut your eyes. The tears start, hot and fast. Francis doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He lets your sobs fall quietly into the bathwater while he strokes your hair with long, sure fingers — the way you imagine he used to soothe his mother when she was drunk and furious.

Eventually, the shaking stops.

Your voice is barely there: “Why are you being nice to me?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I didn’t think you liked… emotional things.”

He exhales. “I don’t.”

“Then why?”

There’s a long pause. Then, softly:

“Because I know what it feels like to want to disappear and not be brave enough to do it.”

Your heart lurches.

Francis lifts a towel from the nearby rack — warm, monogrammed, absurdly soft — and wraps it around your shoulders. He dries your hair with painstaking care, combing it with his fingers like he’s brushing the mane of some mythical creature.

He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t pull you into his lap or whisper dramatic vows.

But he does meet your eyes when he speaks.

“I love you, you know,” he says.

Your breath catches.

And he, of course, ruins it: “Which is tragic. For both of us.”

You laugh through your tears. It's shaky, but it’s real. “I love you too.”

Francis stands and offers you his hand, already smirking like he’s regaining his usual armor. “Well, thank God. I was afraid you might make me say it twice. I don't repeat myself unless under duress.”

He helps you out of the tub. Your towel slips slightly. His eyes flicker — not away, but upward, with exaggerated propriety.

“Oh, do let’s find you something to wear,” he says, ushering you toward the bedroom. “You’re going to catch pneumonia, and I refuse to have that sort of scandal in my bathroom.”

Camilla

The bath is still. The water has cooled, your skin shriveled and pale, your breath soft enough to disappear into the steam that’s long since faded. You’re not crying. Not anymore. But you’re also not moving.

There’s a knock, gentle and tentative. Two soft taps. A feminine rhythm. You don’t answer.

The door opens anyway, just slightly, and then her voice comes, like a whisper through cotton.

“May I come in?”

You swallow.

“Yes.”

Camilla slips through the door like the air you breathe — pale sweater hanging from her shoulders, bare feet quiet on the tile. Her hair is loose. There’s something unearthly about the way she moves, the way she carries silence with her like a shawl.

She doesn’t speak for a moment. She just watches you — curled up in the center of the old clawfoot tub, arms wrapped around your knees. She looks at you the way one looks at something fragile but not broken yet.

Then: “You’ve been in here a long time.”

You nod.

“I was worried.”

You don’t respond. Don’t know how to.

She comes closer, kneels beside the tub, rests her arms on the porcelain edge. Her eyes are soft, the gray of cold mornings and salt.

“Can I wash your hair?”

The question is quiet, but not shy. Not uncertain. Just... kind.

You don’t speak. You nod again, barely.

Camilla rises with easy grace, sleeves already pushed up, rings removed and placed neatly by the sink. She moves like someone who’s cared for others before. And maybe she has — maybe Charles, maybe Francis, maybe Henry, maybe all of them. But this feels different.

She picks up the pitcher and dips it into the water, careful not to splash. Then, slowly, she pours it over your head.

The warmth runs down your back, and for the first time in hours, your shoulders loosen.

Her fingers find your scalp — delicate, practiced, slow. She rubs the shampoo in with care, never rushing, never rough. You close your eyes and let her touch settle into you.

“I used to do this for my grandmother,” she murmurs. “When she got too tired to lift her arms. She said it made her feel like a child again. Safe.”

You exhale through your nose. “I don’t feel safe.”

“I know.”

Her fingers move gently behind your ears, at your temples, soothing in quiet circles.

“I feel like I’m full of things I can’t name,” you say, voice cracking.

Camilla doesn’t flinch. “You don’t have to name them,” she says. “Not with me.”

The lather clings to your hair like snow. She pours more water, rinsing it away, her other hand shielding your forehead.

“I did something awful,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“I’m not a good person.”

Camilla doesn’t argue.

She reaches for the conditioner and begins again — slower this time, more deliberate.

“I think goodness is overrated,” she says. “People love to talk about morality as if it’s tidy. I’ve never seen it look like anything but ruin.”

You glance at her.

She’s smiling, faintly. But there’s pain behind it.

“I’ve done awful things too,” she says. “We all have.”

Your voice breaks. “But you’re still... good.”

She meets your gaze. “I’m not. I’m just good at looking calm.”

You turn away.

“I want to be clean,” you murmur. “But I don’t think I can be.”

She leans forward and presses her lips — barely, softly — to the crown of your head. Not like a kiss between lovers. More like a sacrament.

“Then I’ll love you dirty.”

It shatters you.

You start crying. Not dramatically. Not the gasping kind. Just tears — steady, warm, falling into the water that clings to your cheeks.

Camilla doesn’t hush you. Doesn’t tell you to stop. She runs her fingers through your wet hair, brushing it back, over and over. The room is quiet except for your breath and the occasional drip from the faucet.

When your crying slows, she wraps a towel around your shoulders, tugging gently.

“Come on,” she says, soft but sure. “Let me take care of you.”

She helps you up, careful not to rush you. She holds your hand while you step out of the tub. Wraps you in another towel. Tucks your hair behind your ear. You let her.

In the mirror, you look like someone reborn. Still worn, still aching. But loved.

You sit on the edge of the bed while she brushes your hair, long strokes, rhythmic and slow. Her fingers find every tangle, and she undoes them all.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Camilla doesn’t pause.

She sets the brush down, rests her chin on your shoulder, her arms around your waist from behind.

“I know,” she murmurs. “I’ve always known.”

You turn slightly, just enough to see her.

“I love you too,” she says. “Even when you try to disappear.”

You bury your face in her collarbone and let yourself be loved.

Quietly. Softly. As you are.

Richard

The water has gone tepid. You haven’t noticed. You’ve been lying in it too long — arms floating at your sides, hair fanned out in lazy ribbons. The ceiling blurs when you blink, and the corners of your vision have softened into nothing. It’s the kind of stillness that makes you feel invisible. Almost holy.

You don’t hear Richard at first.

You only register him when he clears his throat — that quiet, embarrassed sound he makes when he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

You tilt your head slightly. He’s standing in the doorway, uncertain. His hands are in his pockets, like they always are when he’s not sure what to do with them.

“You didn’t come down for dinner,” he says, softly.

You don’t answer. He doesn’t ask again.

He lingers by the door a moment longer, then steps in, shutting it behind him. It’s the soft click of someone trying not to disturb you — or himself.

“Are you alright?” he asks. Not like he expects you to say yes. More like he needs to ask, even if it doesn’t matter.

You shake your head, slow.

He looks at you for a while, as though trying to decipher the shape of your grief by how it sits on your body. Then, after a breath: “Do you… want company?”

You blink, and he takes that as a yes.

He sits on the edge of the tub — not close enough to touch you, but close enough to be there.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. He’s too careful with his kindness. Too watchful. And it makes your throat tight.

“Should I — would it help if I washed your hair?” he asks, in a voice so hesitant you almost miss it. “I know that’s… I don’t know. Something people do, I think. When—”

You nod. A small, almost imperceptible nod. But he sees it.

Richard rolls up his sleeves, methodical. There’s something almost shy about the way he dips his hand into the water, testing the temperature. His touch is tentative at first — he’s not sure what’s allowed.

Then he cups water in his palm and pours it gently over your hair.

“I’m not very good at this,” he says, low. “So… you’ll have to forgive me.”

You close your eyes.

His fingers find your scalp. They’re warm, calloused from books and pens and clumsy things, but he’s gentle. As gentle as he knows how to be. His movements are unsure at first — hesitant strokes and too much water — but soon he settles into a rhythm.

There’s a pause, then a quiet voice: “I used to sit like this when I was a kid. In the bath. Let the water go cold. Pretend I wasn’t anywhere.”

You swallow.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” he adds, quieter now. “But now I believe my mother did. She never said anything, though.”

He rinses your hair again, carefully. His fingers comb through the tangles without pulling.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he admits. “But… I’ve been somewhere near it, I think.”

You blink back the stinging behind your eyes.

“I feel disgusting,” you whisper.

He stills. Then: “You’re not.”

“I did things I shouldn’t have. I didn’t stop them.”

“I know.” There’s no judgment in his voice. Just fact. “So did I.”

You breathe, and something comes loose in your chest. A sob — small and sudden — catches in your throat. You press your hands to your face.

Richard moves closer, kneeling now, and places one hand on the side of the tub. Not touching you — just there.

“You’re allowed to fall apart,” he says. “I won’t — I’m not going anywhere.”

You cry. Quietly. Into your hands, into the water, into the spaces between your ribs. He stays kneeling beside you, not asking, not fixing, just existing in the silence with you.

And eventually, when the tears taper off, he reaches for a towel. Dries your hair like it’s something sacred. Wraps you in softness. Helps you out of the tub without a word.

You stand there, wrapped in terrycloth, shivering slightly.

He hesitates again, then speaks, quietly:

“I know I’m not always the best at… this.” A pause. “But I love you.”

You look at him, finally. His face is open — uncertain but true. Richard doesn’t say things like that often. Not because he doesn’t feel them. But because he feels them too much.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

His shoulders relax like he’s been holding something up for hours.

He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t reach for your hand. But he stands close, enough for your arms to brush as you move toward the bedroom.

And when you crawl under the covers, hair damp, body trembling, Richard sits beside you and reads aloud from the book on his nightstand — his voice quiet, steady, not quite performative. Just something to hold onto while the night gets softer.

He doesn’t say another word about the bath.

But he’ll remember every second of it.

And when you need him again, you won’t have to ask.

He’ll already be there.

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