The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

She grabbed the body wash from the shelf and squeezed a generous amount into her palm. The scent was cedar and something darker, masculine in a way that was definitely intentional. Before I could react she was rubbing it across my chest with single-minded purpose, working up a lather with the same intensity she applied to combat training.

"This is what it’s called. This is me making sure you smell like my products instead of her expensive perfume." Her hands worked down my arms with methodical care, spreading the lather in steady circles.

She moved across my shoulders, palms flat against the muscle there, working the soap in with enough pressure that I could feel the tension unwinding under her touch. Then down my back, her fingertips tracing the lines of my spine like she was committing the geography to memory.

"When you walk out of this room you’re going to smell like cedar and sandalwood and me. Not vanilla. Not flowers. Not whatever boutique brand she probably special orders from Paris. Me."

The possessiveness in her voice was doing things to my body that had nothing to do with rational decision-making.

"You’re marking your territory," I said, trying to keep my voice level.

"Obviously."

"Using soap."

"Using whatever tools are available." Her hands moved lower, sliding over the curve of my hips with deliberate slowness. I sucked in a breath as she worked the lather across surfaces that really didn’t require this much attention, dangerously close to areas that were already responding to her proximity with predictable and extremely visible enthusiasm. She knew exactly what she was doing. The slight upward curve of her mouth made that clear. "Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this."

"I’m not acting."

"Good." She dropped to her knees in front of me, working the soap down my thighs with the same focused attention. The position put her face approximately level with parts of my anatomy that were currently operating independent of rational thought. She looked up at me through wet lashes, pink hair streaming water down her face, and smiled with the satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. "This is also mine."

"I wasn’t going to argue."

"Smart."

Her hands continued their work. Down my calves, across my feet, back up again in slow strokes that were definitely more thorough than necessary for the stated goal of removing perfume residue. By the time she stood up again I was trembling slightly and she looked extremely pleased with herself.

"Hair next."

"Sloane."

"What?"

"You’re torturing me."

"Am I?" She reached for the shampoo and squeezed some into her palm. "That sounds like a you problem."

She worked the shampoo through my hair with her fingernails, scratching gently against my scalp in a way that sent shivers down my spine. The contrast between the gentle sensation and the tension coiled in my body was almost unbearable.

"You know," she said conversationally as she massaged the lather through my hair, "I spent three hours yesterday imagining what it would be like when you finally moved in. I pictured you coming to my room. I pictured us having dinner together. I pictured introducing you to Koda and Dash and having them think you were just my friend from home instead of." She paused. "Whatever we are."

"What are we?"

"I don’t know. That’s the problem." She rinsed the shampoo out with gentle hands that contradicted the edge in her voice. "You’re my mother’s ward. You’re the guy who’s lived in my house for nine years. You’re the first person I ever. The only person I’ve ever." She shook her head, sending water droplets flying. "And now you’re here. At my school. In my building, technically. Surrounded by women who are all going to notice you because you’re tall and your eyes do that thing and you’re stupidly good at making people feel special."

"What thing do my eyes do?"

"You know what thing."

"I genuinely don’t."

"They go soft. When you’re talking to someone and you actually care about what they’re saying. They get this. Quality. Like the person in front of you is the only thing in the world that matters." She grabbed the body wash again and started washing herself with aggressive efficiency. "It’s devastating. Absolutely devastating. And you do it without even realizing which makes it worse."

I watched her work the lather across her skin. Down her arms and across her chest and over her stomach with movements that were more functional than seductive but still managed to hold my attention completely.

"I can’t help how my face works."

"You could try."

"I could. But then I’d miss the part where you get jealous and drag me to your room for corrective showering."

She threw the loofah at my head. I caught it because my Dexterity was eighty and also because I’d been expecting exactly that reaction.

"You’re the worst."

"And yet."

"And yet." She sighed, some of the tension finally leaving her shoulders. "Here we are. In my shower. On the first Friday of the semester. Because I couldn’t handle you smelling like another woman for one more second."

"For what it’s worth." I stepped closer, letting the spray run between us. "I would rather be here than anywhere else."

I cupped her face in my hands again, tilting her chin up until our eyes met. "You’re it for me, Sloane. You’ve been it since the moment you punched me in the stomach for using the last of the orange juice."

"You should have checked before you drank it."

"I should have. And I’ve been checking ever since." I kissed her forehead. "I know you’re scared. I know this situation is complicated and weird and probably violates about fifteen different social norms that we’re both choosing to ignore. But you need to trust me. Can you do that?"

She was quiet for a long moment. The water ran over us both, hot and steady, filling the small bathroom with steam.

"I can try," she said finally. "But if that blonde touches you again I’m going to have opinions about it."

"Noted."

"Loud opinions. Explosive opinions. The kind of opinions that require property damage waivers."

"Also noted."