When had I last touched her hair like this? Without it leading somewhere? Without it being part of something else?
Never, probably.
"That feels nice," she murmured.
I rinsed it out. Water sluicing through the dark strands, carrying away the soap.
Body wash next. I squeezed some onto a washcloth.
This was fine. This was clinical. This was just—
She was so small under my hands. Delicate. The washcloth moved over her shoulders, her arms, her back. Careful around the cast. Careful everywhere.
Her skin was soft. Impossibly soft.
I'd touched this skin before. I knew I had. But it felt different now. Like I was actually feeling it for the first time.
"Tickles," she said when I reached her ribs.
"Almost done."
"You're good at this. Very thorough. Do you do this often? Help drunk girls s
