Page 239 of What We Bury

“Mm.” She doesn’t open her eyes. Trusts me enough not to.

That does something to me I’m not going to examine right now.

I look back at the others over my shoulder—Milo still horizontal, Knox sitting at the edge of the bed, Micah and Eli upright and watching. “New sheets. Clean clothes for her. Water and whatever they’ve got for pain. Go.”

Milo rolls to his feet with more speed than a very naked man in a room full of naked men has any right to, and they all scatter, carrying out each task.

I carry her to the bathroom and kick the door shut behind us.

She wakes up properly when the warm water hits her—gasps, grabs my arm, then registers where she is and sags back against me.

“Holden.” My name is a whisper and I lean down slightly and kiss her, soft and slow.

“I’m just getting you cleaned up, wildcat.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.”

“I can stand.”

“You don’t have to.” I adjust my grip and allow the water to sluice over her body and mine, hands supporting her as I rinse the sweat and salt and the mess of all five of us from her skin. She’s heavy and limp in my arms, that rare kind of trust people don’t even know they’re giving away. It would be easier to rest her against the wall, but I don’t. I lift my knee and place my foot on the shower ledge, balancing her on my thigh while I hold her and gently wash her hair, fingers massaging her scalp until she makes a sound like she’s sinking underwater. She barely moves except to tilt her head back when I tell her to, eyes closed and mouth parted, letting me take care of her like it’s a fact of physics.

I shampoo her hair twice and soap every inch of her body with methodical care—checking her wrists and knees for new bruises, scanning for any mark that should be treated or iced or coddled. Even after everything we’ve done, there’s still a weird reverence to the process. My hands move slower than they need to. She lets me touch all of her, no flinch, no second thought, just the easy, dreamy surrender of someone who knows they’re safe.

After a while, she opens her eyes, lashes starred with little clumps of water, and watches me for a long time with a look that is so pure and simple it makes my stomach ache.

“You’re really gentle,” she says, voice almost slurred. I rinse her hair one more time.

“You earned it.”

“And strong. How are you cradling me like this?”

“You’re tiny, Sage. You could live in Knox’s pockets.”

She laughs, but it’s a soft, slurred thing.

When the water runs clear and her skin is pink from the heat, I shut off the spray and let her stand while I towel her down, using a second towel to blot her hair before scooping her up again.

“You can put me down,” she protests, but it’s automatic, a habit of independence that runs out of steam by the time I cradle her to my chest and nudge the bathroom door open with my foot.

Back in the bedroom, the sheets are already changed with tight corners—Knox’s work, I can tell by the hospital folds.

I set her on the edge of the bed. Micah moves in and holds out some Advil and a glass of water. “These’ll help with any pain.”

“Thanks, Micah,” she whispers as she takes them, washing them down without prompting.

“Here, little savage.” Eli crouches in front of her with a pair of sleep shorts at the ready and she steps into them, steadying herself with one hand on his shoulder. He pulls them up without making it into anything. Then he picks up a sleep shirt and drops it over her head, her arms guided through the sleeves.

“Thank you,” she whispers again, and he leans down to press a light kiss on the end of her nose.

“Of course.”

Milo taps her shoulder and holds up a hairbrush. “I’ve been dying to do this.”

She grins and turns. Then he gathers her damp hair and starts working through it, section by section, gentle and unhurried. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this focused orquiet.Sage’s eyes get heavy almost immediately.

“Where did you learn to braid?” she asks.