Irama lowered Hirvan onto the bed with careful movements, as though he were afraid even the slightest carelessness might hurt him further. The mattress dipped softly under Hirvan's weight, the sheets still carrying a faint warmth from earlier. Without saying anything, Irama turned and walked into the bathroom.
The sound of running water filled the quiet room.
A few minutes later, he returned, holding a towel that was damp and slightly steaming. He sat beside Hirvan and began to wipe his face first, his touch gentle and cautious, as though he was trying to make up for something he could not put into words. He moved slowly from his face to his neck, then down to his arms, cleaning him with quiet focus.
Hirvan watched him the entire time without speaking. His eyes stung faintly, though he was not entirely sure why.
