I use both of my hands to cup enough water to wet her hair and let it fall over her head. When it’s good and wet, I reach for the bottle of shampoo resting on the edge of the tub and drizzle some into my palm before working it into a lather. My fingertips massage her scalp in slow, firm circles and work the shampoo into it and her hair. She moans against me, and it’s not sexual at all, but being close and intimate with her like this still turns me on.

And when I later rinse the shampoo out of her hair, she sighs and melts into my arms, content and relaxed. I’ve loved every second of this, but knowing she feels safe and comfortable enough with me to totally relax like this is easily the best part of it. I lose myself in the moment as we float in the warm, soothing water, Hannah’s back bobbing against my chest and her long, dark hair spreading out across the surface.

I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close and holding her there, and her hands float up to mine. Our fingers link, and she gives me a tender squeeze before she moves her hands to my forearms and starts tracing the tips of her fingers up toward my biceps until one of them pauses over a scar on my right arm.

“How did you get this?” she asks softly with her eyes closed as she follows the shape and line of the scar with her finger like she can read it through her touch.

I chuckle. “Oh, you know, the usual stupid little boy stuff.”

Hannah laughs with me. “What did you do?”

“I thought it would be a good idea to race another kid when we were ice skating on this frozen pond near our school one winter. I got up to speed and was leaving him in the dust, and I looked over my shoulder to make a face at him. Next thing I knew, I caught a rock in my skate and went down hard on my arm. I ended up breaking it in the fall.”

“Ouch. Well, looks like it healed okay in the end.”

“More than okay. I remember when they cut the cast off, the doctors couldn’t believe the x-rays. They swore it looked like I’d never broken it at all. But I guess I have my mom to thank for that.”

“Did she take good care of you?”

I laugh. “If you’d asked me back then, I probably would’ve said she took too good care of me. But I love her for it now. If she hadn’t been there to force me to take it easy and give my arm time to heal, I probably would’ve made it much worse.”

“So your stubbornness isn’t new?” she teases, pulling another laugh from me.