I would chase, but only to keep her safe.
Never to take advantage of her.
“Okay, Logan,” she said my name in syllables, as if she were testing it on her tongue.
I liked how my name sounded on her lips. She was different from anyone else I had ever met. “I’m turning around now,” I warned, giving her my back. “I promise not to look.” I knew she’d be beautiful naked. I didn’t need to steal a glance that was unwanted by her. I’d wait until she was ready.
The nightgown hit the floor with a plop. The sound of the water rippling told me she was getting inside it. She exhaled, “Okay, Logan.”
I turned around to see her head bobbing just above the bubbles, and it made me chuckle. She looked so cute. “Your head looks like it’s floating because of all the bubbles.”
She smiled, a real one, not a strained one, but one that reached her eyes. It was beautiful. I sat on the step at the base of the tub and handed her a washcloth. “Here you go.”
Her hand touched mine, and sparks traveled through my nerves, my veins. My entire body came to life just from the quick touch. She dipped the washcloth into the bubbles, and rivulets of water streamed off the black rag as she washed her face, getting the smears of dirt off her cheeks. With every stroke, clear skin came into view, and it looked so soft, so pale. Her lashes fluttered, dark and long, shadowing her cheeks, and when she looked at me with those deep brown eyes, I felt how tired she was.
Not just right now, but in general. She had seen too much, been through too much, and she was tired of fighting just to live. Well, she didn’t have to fight anymore. The fight was over. I could take it from here.
She dipped her head under the water, and when she came back up to get air, she wiped the bubbles off her face and opened her eyes. Her slicked-back hair stuck to her skull, and I saw a few leaves and twigs in it now.
I reached up and plucked the debris free, laying them on the ground. She blushed when she saw what I was pulling out of her hair, and she brought her knees to her chest, hugging them close. She does that when she’s uncomfortable, I noted.
“Were you in the woods?” I joked, pulling another leaf out of her hair.
“Yes,” she said. “Running from that man.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to keep you safe.”
“I can keep myself safe,” she hissed, jerking away from me.
“I know you can. You have all this time; I’m just saying, you aren’t alone anymore, Abigail. I care if you’re running from someone, I care if you’re hurt, I care if you feel scared. I never want you to feel like that again.”
Abigail didn’t say anything; she just stared at her knees as I took an entire forest out of her hair. “Turn around,” I said, laying the last yellow leaf on the ground.
She narrowed her eyes at me.
“Trust me.” I knew it was easier said than done, but we had to start somewhere.
She wanted to protest, but she kept her lips firm, jaw set, and spun around. Her hair traveled down her back, covering her spine until her ends floated on the bubbles near her waist. From this angle, her ribs showed, and I had to take a few breaths to not get angry. It wasn’t her fault, whatever happened to her, it changed her for life.
Abigail survived on her own this long, and I believed she survived for me. I’d make her life better, more than she could ever dream of; I just needed her to give this a chance. It would be hard to gain her trust, but I was up for the challenge.
I squirted a bit of shampoo in my palm and rubbed my hands together to suds it up. It smelled like coconut. I loved the smell. It reminded me of the beach. She jumped when I touched her head and started to wash her hair. “It’s okay. Relax. You can trust me,” I crooned. Her shoulders were tight, nearly up to her ears, but the more I rubbed her scalp, the more they lowered until she was leaning against the side of the tub, letting me take care of her.
And it felt so fucking good.
“Have you ever been to the beach?” I asked. I wanted to learn everything about her, everything she remembered about herself, I wanted to know.
Her head turned, and that small, pointed chin landed on her shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Is it because of this?” As gently as I could, I rubbed down the large scar on the back of her scalp, she hissed but didn’t move.
“Yes,” she said. “An accident.”
“Do you remember it?”
She moved her head left to right, telling me no. “One year. That’s all I know.”
I didn’t understand what she was saying. She didn’t give me enough context. “Your accident was a year ago?”