The next morning
The water hits my sore muscles in a hot, steaming cascade, beating against my shoulders and running down my back in heavy, cleansing streams.
The bathroom is thick with white fog, smelling of my rose body wash and the sharp, woody soap Locke uses. I stand under the showerhead with my eyes closed, my head tilted back, letting the heat work out the deep ache in my hips and thighs… a sweet, persistent reminder of last night.
For a few minutes, under the steady rush of the water, everything feels simple. The world shrinks down to the white tile, the rise and fall of my breath, and the comforting weight of being alive and safe.
Then, the frosted glass door slides open.
The cool air of the bathroom slips into the enclosure for a second before Locke steps in, shutting the do
