Page 36 of Fathom

He just watched me, not moving, not saying anything.

I stayed where I was, just inside the door, my hand lingering on the cool frame. I wasn't afraid of him. If Eun wanted to hurt me the way the shows dramatized, he'd had more than enough chances. He hadn't. Not once. The fact held me in place as much as the unease did. The problem wasn't fear... it was the gap I couldn't cross without the language to build the bridge. I didn't fully understand what I was seeing, what was unfolding between us. He was alien in more than shape. His silence carried weight I couldn't measure, his stillness too exact, too deliberate to map against human reactions. If I tried to layer my own logic over his, it slipped off, useless. Whatever he did, whatever choice flickered behind the intense focus of his gaze on me, it came from a place I had no map for. And so I stayed, rooted just inside the threshold, aware of how close and far that line between us really was.

"Eun, talk," I said. "You need? What do you need?"

I wanted to ask him what he needed to get through this, what I could give, what would ease the weight he carried...but my words were limited. So I used the few I had learned, shaping them carefully, and hoped he would find some way to answer me. Gratitude pressed at me; he had saved me, and I feltthe truth of owing him my life. Yet I had always believed that a gift, once given, should never demand return. I wasn’t standing here out of obligation. I stayed because I wanted to, because the memory of his arms around me still lingered...a phantom pressure against my ribs, a warmth that fluttered low in my chest. Maybe it was nothing more than trauma’s echo binding me closer than I should be. Or maybe it was the beginning of something far deeper.

More than anything, I wanted to know that when I finally found my way back to Earth, I wouldn’t be leaving him broken, but better than I had found him.

He didn't answer, so I just stared back at him.

He had enough length in his chain to use the ensuite bathroom, but it didn't look like he had washed himself in a few days. His skin was greasy, and the musk in the room, though it wasn't unpleasant, made it clear that showering hadn't been on his to-do list. There was still dried blood on his skin, dark and disgusting. He had light purple slashes on his skin from where his cuts were freshly healed.

I turned and went back into the apartment to search for what I needed. I left the door wide open so he could see me moving around, and he remained silent, still. I found a large bowl under the sink and filled it with warm water. I got a washcloth and put some of the soap I had in my own ensuite in the water. I put the bowl down, grabbed a small table that was next to one of the arms of the couch, and walked back to the doorway. I placed it inside his room, halfway between the door and him, out of his reach. There were claw marks on the floor that marked the edge of where I thought he could reach. I went and got the bowl, brought it in, and set it down on the table. I dunked a washcloth in the water and then went right up to the claw marks.

His nostrils flared as I approached, but he didn't move.

He was a little bit back from that line, with slack in his chain.

I wanted to trust him. I really did. But Abby had gone out of her way to show me those programs, frame by frame, filled with warnings I couldn’t quite scrub from my mind. Back home, I’d sat through bad dates...awkward conversations, mismatched expectations, but never once had a man tried to hurt me. I knew other women hadn’t been so lucky. I also knew the way the mind worked, how easy it was to dismiss someone else’s nightmare if you’d never lived it yourself. That blind spot was always there, waiting to make you careless. So even as part of me wanted to write off her warnings as nothing more than media propaganda, I couldn’t. I held them close, like a splinter under the skin I couldn’t dig out.

I didn't believe he would hurt me, but my belief wasn't good enough.

Belief was never good enough. It had to be supported by truth.

Truth was discovered through the basic scientific method. Make a hypothesis and then try to prove it wrong, over and over again. My hypothesis was that he wouldn't hurt me. He'd already shown he wouldn't, but the truth wasn't found in a single test; it required multiple tests. It required me to be careful, slow, and methodical.

If he failed the test, even once, I would know I was wrong.

When he looked at me with a tension that sent shivers of excitement through me, making my heart beat faster, my instincts telling me that if I went within his reach, he would pounce.

Heat flared between my legs at the thought.

I wasn't just in here to help him, I realized.

I was in here because I couldn't stop thinking of his body moving on top of me.

"I wash," I told him, holding out the washcloth as I pointed at the line with my other hand. "You come here."

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then he took one step forward, then another, stalking towards me like a lion slinking through the grass, until the chain around his neck snapped taut, stopping him at the end of its range, his tail and hair all reaching towards me even though his hands stayed down by his side.

"I will wash you," I said again.

This was the point of no return. If I were going to clean him like I was offering, I would have to step into his reach. He had claws. His tail could snap bone. He was bigger than me, stronger by a significant margin. All it would take was for him to decide he wanted to, and he could easily grab me and overpower me in seconds. That thought sent a heat flaring through me that had nothing to do with fear.

He had done what I asked and came forward to the spot I pointed at. He was listening to me.

I dipped the washcloth again, squeezed out the excess water, and stepped forward, closing the distance. I moved carefully, with deliberate intention. His eyes never left me, and I struggled to look at him, feeling the intense heat of his gaze against my skin like he was the sun on a warm day, brilliant and uncomfortable. I focused on his bare chest instead, where his smooth, hairless skin pulled tight around his broad pectorals. I set the washcloth against his chest.

His tail slid around the back of my knee.

His hands clenched into fists.

His arms stayed down by his sides.

I began to wash him, slowly and methodically, not missingan inch of his chest. I focused on the task with every inch of gratitude I felt in my heart. This was the man who saved me, protected me, and came to rescue me when my own fear and fury caused me to disregard his warnings. Something had happened to him after he came for me, something that required him to be chained up and locked away, and he needed me.