Chapter 1: The Shower Meltdown
The water was too hot, but Nari stood under the spray anyway, letting it pound against her shoulders until her skin turned pink. Steam billowed, filling the tiny bathroom until the mirror was a blank, fogged slate. She preferred it that way.
Three months. Twelve weeks. The math did nothing to bridge the gap between her mind and her body.
She turned, the movement still careful, a slight hitch in her side where the soreness lingered. Her hands slid over her belly, the skin there softer, looser, marked with silver lines that caught the light like faint trails. They felt foreign under her fingertips, like a map to a country she’d never intended to visit. She was a world champion. She was a surgeon. Her hands were meant for precision, for winning, for fixing. Now they trembled slightly, tracing this new, unfamiliar landscape.
A choked sound escaped her, lost in the drum of the water. It wasn’t sadness, not exactly. It was a dizzying disconnect. She had done this incredible, violent, beautiful thing. And her body had the receipts.
The shower curtain rustled, a cool draft cutting through the steam. She didn’t need to look.
“You’re going to boil yourself alive,” Nick said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the humid air.
“Go away. I’m fine.”
“You say ‘fine’ like it’s a curse word.” The curtain rings scraped back further. “Scoot over, hotshot. You’re hogging all the hot water.”
He was already shirtless, his pajama pants dark with droplets as he stepped in behind her. She stiffened, instinct pulling her arms across her chest. But his hands didn’t go where she expected. They settled lightly on her hips, his thumbs drawing slow, absent circles on the dip of her waist.
“Nick,” she started, a protest dying in her throat.
“Shhh.” He rested his chin on the top of her wet head. “Just standing here. Not fixing anything.”
The heat from his chest seeped into her back. The water cascaded over both of them now, less an assault and more a blanket. He nuzzled her temple, his breath warm against her ear. She let her head fall back against him, the fight bleeding out of her with the next exhale. It was the stubbornness that exhausted her the most, the constant, grinding need to be the exception, to bounce back faster, to be untouched by the process.
“I look like someone else,” she said, the words barely audible.
He was quiet for a moment. Then his hands slid gently around to her stomach, his palms broad and warm, covering the silver marks completely. He held her there, his touch firm and undeniable.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “You look like someone who grew a whole person. And then evicted them. With extreme prejudice.” He squeezed gently. “It’s kind of badass, Nari.”
A wet laugh shuddered out of her. “Badass.”
“The baddest.” He kissed her shoulder. “These aren’t flaws. They’re evidence. You want a trophy? Here it is. Right here.” His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path along one of the longest marks. “This one, here? That’s when she decided to start using your bladder as a trampoline at 3 a.m. I remember. You swore in three languages.”
She remembered. She’d cried that night too, from frustration and lack of sleep.
“And this,” his hand drifted lower, “this is the finish line. Where she came into the world screaming like a tiny, furious dictator.”
Tears welled, hot and sudden, mixing with the shower spray. She didn’t try to stop them. He turned her slowly in his arms until she faced him. Water dripped from his eyelashes. He didn’t look at her body with clinical assessment or even with simple admiration. He looked at her. As if he was seeing the entire saga, the struggle and the triumph, written right there on her skin.
He cupped her face. “You’re so beautiful it actually hurts me to look at you sometimes.”
“I’m a mess,” she whispered.
“You’re my mess.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “And you’re tired. And you’re healing. And you’re stubborn as hell. And you’re the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”
He kissed her then, not with passion, but with a lingering, devastating certainty. It was a seal on everything he’d said. When he pulled back, he smoothed her soaked hair from her cheeks.
“Now, are you done conducting your own hostile audit, or do I need to keep listing your accomplishments? I’ve got time. I prepared flashcards.”
She snorted, swatting his arm. The emotional pivot was so him, cutting the gravity with a joke before it could crush her. He grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles.
The steam was beginning to clear at the edges of the mirror. A sliver of reflection emerged, cloudy and indistinct. She saw the blur of their forms, tangled together under the water. Not two separate people, but a single, shifting shape in the fog.
She saw him looking at that blur in the glass, a soft, unguarded smile on his face. He saw her watching him see it. His smile widened.
“See?” he murmured, his voice barely a breath against her ear. “Never more you.”
He reached past her and turned off the water. The sudden silence was a roar in her ears. Dripping, they stood there in the quiet, the warm tile under their feet, the scent of lavender and them—coffee, rain, home—hanging in the damp air.
A shiver ran through her. He reached for a towel, big and fluffy, and wrapped it around her, rubbing her arms through the fabric. He was methodical, gentle, drying her off as if it were the most important task in the world.
“I’m starving,” she announced, her voice stronger now.
“I know. You get hangry. It’s dramatic.” He tossed a towel over his own head, scrubbing at his hair. “I made soup. The boring, healing kind you pretend to hate but then eat two bowls of.”
“I might eat three.”
“I’ll alert the media.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into the steamy warmth of his side. “World Champion Surgeon Devours Lentil Soup. Film at eleven.”
She leaned into him, her head finding its spot just below his collarbone. As they moved toward the door, she glanced back.
The mirror was almost clear now. The reflection was sharp, detailed. She saw the new softness, the tired shadows under her eyes, the marks. And she saw him beside her, his cheek resting on her damp hair, his eyes already on the door, on the next thing she needed.
She didn’t see a stranger. She saw a woman, standing in a warm room, held.
And for the first time in twelve weeks, it didn’t feel like a lie.