Rain's POV:
I wake up exhausted in a way sleep doesn't touch.
Not the kind of tired that asks for rest—
the kind that sits in your bones and whispers that opening your eyes might cost more than you have.
I don't want to see myself yet.
I don't want to see what's left.
I turn slightly, instinct more than choice, and my shoulder presses into something solid.
Warm.
Breathing.
I smell him before I really register him—
that familiar scent that doesn't belong to this nightmare.
Soap, skin, something grounding.
Relief.
That's what it smells like.
If relief had a shape, it would be this—solid, unmoving, here.
My eyes open slowly.
Danny is already awake.
Already watching me.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
I just look at him because thinking hurts too much.
Because if I stare long enough, the world narrows to something survivable.
His eyes are darker than usual, ringed with exhaustion he's pretending not to feel.
They're full. Too full.
So I don't look at them for long, afraid I might find pity there.
I catalog him instead, like anchoring facts.
His nose.
The faint crease between his brows.
His mouth—still that uneven, almost-smile that never quite decides what it is.
Stubble shadowing his jaw.
Sharper somehow.
Don't think.
Don't remember.
Just this.
"Rain," he whispers.
And just like that, the fragile quiet collapses.
I turn onto my back, staring at the ceiling, his arm still around me—careful, like he's afraid to breathe too deeply.
"I—"
The word sticks.
"I feel dirty."
It comes out flat. Not dramatic. Not broken the way I expected.
No tears follow.
That scares me more than if they had.
"I feel dirty," I say again, quieter this time.
"It's not coming off."
The sensation crawls under my skin—wrong, unbearable.
I start scratching without meaning to, nails digging into my arms like there's something trapped underneath that needs to get out.
Danny's hands close around mine instantly.
Firm and Steady.
"No," he murmurs, not angry. Just urgent.
"Hey. Rain."
Doesn't he see it?
Doesn't he see how wrong it is?
"I need to get it off," I whisper, panic tightening my chest.
"I need to—"
"How about a shower?" he says gently, like offering a lifeline without forcing it into my hands.
"Yeah?"
I cling to the word.
Shower.
Water.
Clean.
"It'll come off, right?" I ask him, searching his face like he might lie to save me.
"It'll come off."
He doesn't answer with words.
He just helps me sit up, slow and careful, like sudden movement might fracture me.
The room looks unfamiliar then.
Soft. Warm. Safe in ways that feel undeserved.
We reach the bathroom and he turns, instinctively giving me space.
The terror hits so hard it steals my breath.
"NO!"
The sound tears out of me before I can stop it.
"Please—please don't—"
My voice breaks into something animal.
If he leaves, the walls come back.
The voices.
The laughter.
"I'm right here," he says immediately. "I'm just outside. I promise."
"No."
The word snaps.
A sob wrenches through me, violent and humiliating.
He's back in front of me instantly.
I grab him like I'm falling.
"Please," I choke. "Please help me."
He looks at me and I see it then—
the pain he's been holding back so I don't have to.
He understands.
But he's not inside it.
That part is mine.
"Don't leave me alone," I whisper, eyes darting to corners that shouldn't scare me but do.
"Please."
"I'm not going anywhere," he says slowly, deliberately.
"I'm right here."
He speaks like grounding me one word at a time.
I start scratching again without realizing it.
He catches my wrists and just holds them there.
Just—anchoring.
"Don't touch me," I say, the words tumbling out wrong.
"I'm dirty."
He doesn't argue.
He just starts taking his clothes off.
"Can I?" he asks, quiet, respectful, like consent still matters even now.
He lifts my shirt gently.
Then I'm standing there half-dressed, exposed in a way that makes my stomach knot.
I start shaking.
He doesn't comment.
Doesn't rush.
He helps me out of my clothes with the same care you'd use to handle something cracked.
The water turns on.
When the water starts, my body jerks.
A sharp, violent jolt runs through me — breath ripping out of my chest before I can stop it.
For half a second, it feels cold.
Freezing.
Punishing.
My muscles lock. My hands claw instinctively at his arms.
And then—
I realise.
It isn't cold.
It's warm. Almost too warm.
The shock isn't from the water.
It's from memory.
My body remembers before my mind can catch up — the slap of cold, the bucket, the humiliation of being woken like that.
My skin reacts like it's happening again, like it's bracing for pain that doesn't come.
Danny's hands are on my face instantly, steady, grounding.
"Hey," he murmurs, thumbs brushing the water away from my eyes.
"You're okay. It's warm. I've got you."
The warmth seeps in slowly, cautiously, like my body doesn't trust it yet.
Like it's waiting for the cruelty to follow.
I breathe again — shallow, uneven — and let the water keep running.
And then it hits.
The sob that comes out of me is catastrophic.
It splits straight through my chest.
The water swallows the sound.
He lets me cry.
Doesn't shush me.
Doesn't tell me to breathe.
He pours soap into his hands and starts washing my neck.
I glare at him through tears—
angry that he's gentle.
Angry that it hurts more than roughness ever could.
It makes me want to lean into him.
That scares me.
He washes my arms slowly, reverently, like he's reminding my body it's still mine.
My legs buckle.
I would've collapsed if he weren't there.
"Look at me," he says softly.
"Please baby"
I don't want to.
If I do, I might break open completely.
"You're strong," he whispers. "You're still here. You have been so brave."
I look at him then—
and my face begs him to make it stop.
He leans his forehead against mine.
I cry into him, shaking so hard my teeth chatter.
His hands keep moving, steady and warm.
Almonds.
Coconut.
The scent hits me out of nowhere.
Eighteen.
A lifetime ago.
I drift. Cry. Drift again.
"Is it gone?" I ask eventually, staring at my arms like they might answer.
"Is it gone?"
The memory slams back into me without warning.
I shove him back against the wall, chest heaving, and sob like something is being ripped out of me.
"They're dead?" I ask, desperate.
"All dead," he says.
"Okay," I whisper.
Again and again.
Like repetition might make it true.
He wraps me in a towel.
Carries me back.
Firelight.
Warmth.
He dresses me like I can't manage it myself, I stare at the sweater that barely fits
I let him dress me, he holds out the fleece pants and I wear them.
He sits me on the bed.
I think he's about to leave.
I turn away.
Because the words sitting on my tongue are dangerous.
Just stay.