Each drop chased away the phantom echoes of rough hands that weren't his, the bruises blooming under my flesh like ugly secrets.
But his touch... his touch was a balm, firm yet gentle, reclaiming every inch he washed.
"He doesn't get to stay with you," Gideon murmured, his voice low and rough, vibrating through the water between us.
His silver eyes locked on mine, unblinking, as if he could see straight through to the raw hurt twisting inside me. "Every mark he left, every touch, we're washing it away. You're taking back your skin. Your body. Yourself."
Tears mixed with the bathwater trailing down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting. "I hate that he did this to me. I hate that I can't just forget."
He didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers traced the line of my collarbone,
