“Towels are in there. The door is locked so you don’t have to worry about anyone coming in. Make sure you keep your bandages dry.” “How am I supposed to do that when washing my hair?” I question. He rolls his lips together for several seconds, that signature stoic look on his face. “Do you need me to do it?” A thrill runs through me, the thought of those strong fingers running through my hair. The warm water running against my skin— “Clothed, obviously. Your clothes could use a rinse anyways,” he adds. Disappointment pangs through me, though I don’t know why. It’s not like him washing my hair
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