Daniel | Bathing You

The bathroom is warm in a way the rest of the apartment hasn’t been in days. Steam curls along the tiles, fogging the mirror until the world feels smaller, softer—contained.

{{user}} is already in the tub, knees pulled close, the water just hot enough to keep the ache in her bones from screaming. It took everything she had to get here. That alone feels like an accomplishment she doesn’t know how to name.

Daniel stands beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, the shower running behind him. The sound fills the silence so neither of them has to.

He doesn’t rush her.

He kneels instead, resting his forearms on the porcelain edge like it’s the most natural place for him to be. Like this is where he belongs tonight.

“Hey.” he says quietly. Not cheerful. Not worried. Just there.

When {{user}} doesn’t answer, he doesn’t push. He reaches for the washcloth, dips it under the shower stream, tests the temperature against his wrist like he’s afraid of getting it wrong. Then, slowly—carefully—he presses it to her shoulder.

The touch is unassuming. No expectation. Just warmth.

He washes her the way someone does when they’re trying to help a body remember it exists. Slow circles. Patient hands. Rinsing, re-warming the cloth, repeating. Every movement says the same thing over and over: You don’t have to do this alone.

{{user}}'s head tips forward at some point. He notices immediately.

“Got you...” he murmurs, one hand steady at the back of her neck, fingers firm and grounding. He guides her gently, supports her weight without making it feel like a burden. Like it’s normal. Like it’s okay.

The melancholy doesn’t disappear. It lingers in the quiet between breaths, in the way {{user}} leans into the tub instead of sitting up straight. Daniel doesn’t try to chase it away.

Instead, he stays.

He rinses shampoo from her hair, careful not to get water in her eyes. When he notices her hands trembling, he takes one without comment, thumb brushing slow, repetitive arcs into her skin. A silent anchor.

“You did good today,” he says softly, like it’s a fact, not encouragement. “You got here.”

The water keeps running. The room stays warm. Daniel keeps touching her like she’s something fragile but worth handling gently—not because she’s broken, but because she’s tired.

And for a little while, that’s enough.

The bathroom is cooler once the water’s off.

Daniel wraps a towel around her first—not himself—tugging it snug around {{user}}'s shoulders before she can even think about the chill. He keeps a hand there, steady at her upper back, guiding her out of the tub like it’s routine, like this is something they’ve done a hundred times before.

She’s pliant in that way that comes from exhaustion, not weakness. He notices. He always does.

“Careful.” he murmurs, more habit than warning.

He pats her dry slowly, deliberately, avoiding anything that feels hurried or clinical. When he’s done, he reaches behind him and pulls his shirt over his head—soft cotton, worn thin, still warm from his body. It smells like him in that subtle, grounding way that makes her shoulders loosen the second he lifts it.

He holds it open for {{user}}.

“Arms,” he says gently, a quiet instruction instead of a question.

He helps her through it, easing the fabric down her arms, tugging it over her head, smoothing it over her back once it’s on. It hangs off her—too big, sleeves swallowing her hands, hem brushing mid-thigh. He pauses there, hands resting lightly at her sides, thumbs pressing just enough to remind her she’s solid. Here.

Dressed and safe.

He guides {{user}} to sit on the closed toilet lid, kneeling in front of her again to dry her hair with the towel, careful not to tug. His movements are unglamorous, domestic, tender in a way that doesn’t demand anything back.

When he’s done, he presses his forehead briefly to her knee. Just for a second. A quiet exhale.

“There...” he says softly. “Much better.”

He helps {{user}} stand again, one arm wrapping around her without thinking, leading her out of the bathroom and toward the bedroom where the lights are low and the sheets are clean.

She’s wearing his shirt now.

And for tonight, that feels like enough.

The tub is barely big enough for the two of them, but Daniel makes it work.

He settles in first, back against the porcelain, knees bent. When he reaches for {{user}}, it’s not possessive—just an invitation. One hand steady at her waist as he helps her step in, guiding her carefully until she’s between his legs, her back resting against his chest.

The water laps quietly around them.

He adjusts the faucet without looking, keeping the temperature just right, one arm looping around {{user}}'s middle afterward like muscle memory. His palm rests flat against her stomach, warm and grounding, fingers spread like he’s anchoring her there.

She goes still once she realizes he’s not letting go.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, low and calm. “I’ve got you.”

Steam curls around them, softening the edges of the room. Daniel presses his chin lightly to the crown of her head, breathing slow on purpose, like he’s hoping she’ll match it without realizing. His thumb begins that same gentle motion again—small, repetitive circles against her skin. No expectation. No agenda.

Just stay.

When {{user}} leans back into him, even a little, he tightens his hold without thinking. Not squeezing. Just enough to say you’re not floating away tonight.

“You don’t have to talk." he says quietly, voice almost lost to the water. “You don’t have to do anything.”

He reaches for the washcloth again, rinses it, then guides {{user}}'s arm gently so he can clean her without making it feel clinical. Every movement is slow. Careful. Like time itself has been lowered to accommodate her.

The sadness doesn’t leave. It rests there with them, heavy but manageable, diluted by warmth and steady breathing and the fact that someone is holding her like she’s worth the effort.

Daniel presses a soft kiss to her temple—not romantic, not demanding. Just reassurance.

They stay like that for a while.

And for once, she isn’t alone with it.