Your Ivy Grows

Chapter 53

If I hadn't cried myself to the point of exhaustion already tonight, I'd have shed a few tears over how tender Bucky is being. He meticulously picks out every piece of glass from my hair, inspecting each minor cut he finds as he goes.

The entire time he works, he's silent. It's easy to tell it takes a concentrated effort on his part not to bombard me with questions. I'm proud of his self-control when he waits until the final shard is removed before he says anything.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks softly.

Do I?

Yes.

No.

I don't know.

Letting it all out feels like the only thing that'll help, because the weight of holding it inside is crushing me. But all at once, I'm hit with a wave of nausea at the very idea of talking about it.

I quietly shake my head, admitting to myself I'm not ready for the conversation and knowing he won't push me on it.

My default has always been to lie, conceal the truth, and evade questions from childhood into adulthood. It was an unspoken rule between Tommy and me, exacerbated by our fear of what our father would do if he found out we'd told anyone. Or worse, that in trying to get away from one bad situation, we'd find ourselves split up and put in a system not known for being much better.

With John, it was more insidious. He snuck up on me slowly, taking advantage of my childhood innocence and naivety. By the time I recognised it for what it was, I felt trapped in it; too ashamed to tell.

But I know better now.

I'll be better.

Bucky makes me want to be brave enough to tell the truth.

"Not yet."

I can give him that at least, the knowledge that it's a no for now, not forever.

"That's okay, I'm a patient man," he assures me, dropping a kiss to my shoulder. "I think I got all the glass out. Lean your head back for me, baby."

I do as he asks, letting the warm water cascade over me. Before I can even start running my fingers through my hair to wash out any dried blood, Bucky beats me to it.

See, this is the shit that makes me want to cry. I can't remember a time before him I felt this cared for—cherished.

Only when I feel him working shampoo through my hair do I worry I should take over. In the end, I allow him to continue because I can tell he's finding as much comfort in taking care of me as I am. Not to mention, it feels incredible.

A small groan of pleasure slips out as he massages my scalp, lathering up the shampoo before guiding my head under the water to rinse it out. He follows it up with conditioner before washing my body, making quick work of scrubbing away the blood coating me.

My eyes are unashamedly perusing down Bucky's body, unable to stop myself from appreciating how the water glides down his sculpted muscles.

After this, I'm never going to want to shower alone again.

My eyes zero in on the erection he's sporting, something he's choosing to ignore. It's clear this isn't sexual to him; he's truly trying to take care of me and nothing else. But I can't have his hands roving all over me and not feel like I want to beg him for more.

I want him.

It feels like every minute of every day I hunger for this man. Even now, when my mind should be on more pressing problems, the only thing I can concentrate on is my need for him.