Nixon’s POV
"You look clean."
My own voice cut through the heavy, wet air of the shower, sounding like a stranger’s. It was too flat. Too controlled.
Scout blinked up at me through the rising steam, her pupils wide, swallowing the hazel of her irises until her eyes looked completely black. She did not answer. She just stood there, her small shoulders slick with hot water, a thick layer of white soap lather sliding down the curve of her collarbone.
I pulled my hand back. My knuckles brushed the wet glass of the shower door, cold against my burning skin. I had been an inch away from grabbing her. An inch away from pulling her against my chest and letting the pack politics burn to the ground.
"Sorry," I muttered.
The word was pathetic. It got lost in the steady, heavy hiss of the shower
