CASSIAN
The shower stopped.
A few minutes of silence followed, and then the bathroom door creaked open. A cloud of steam billowed out, smelling of my soap and my shampoo.
Noah emerged, and for a moment, my breath hitched in my throat.
He was clean. His hair was wet and dripping, his face scrubbed of the gala's grime. The chemical smell was gone, replaced by the familiar scent of my own products. He smelled like me.
He was wearing the black t-shirt Cyan had picked out. It hung off his frame, the shoulder seams halfway down his biceps, the sleeves reaching past his elbows.
The hem hit him mid-thigh, swallowing him in black cotton. He was wearing my gray sweatpants, the drawstring pulled as tight as it would go, but he were still sliding down his hips. He was holding them up with one hand, his fingers buried in the fabric.
He looked small. Vulnerable. Younger.
But most of all, he looked okay.
