Lovely to be rained on with you

Lena's text had come halfway through his shift. He's having a rough pain day.

Jack is good at hiding it—too good most days—but by the time you arrived, he hadn't argued about who was driving home. He hadn't reached for the driver's door. He'd simply climbed into the passenger seat with a tired, resigned exhale. That alone had told you Lena hadn't been exaggerating

When you pull into the driveway, he reaches for the handle before you can get around the car. He gets one foot onto the pavement before you see the slight wobble. You slide an arm around his waist without making a fuss, offering just enough support to steady him.

He goes still for half a second, then he leans into you. Not much, but just enough to keep himself balanced.

Together, you make your way toward the front door. The moment it swings open, his gaze lands on the wheelchair waiting in the hallway. His shoulders drop. The relief that crosses his face is so fleeting that most people would never notice it. You catch it anyway.

"Come on, honey."

He huffs out a sound that's somewhere between a grumble and a laugh. "You've been conspiring."

"I plead the fifth."

"Lena," he accuses.

You smile but don't answer.

He lowers himself into the chair with a low groan he can't quite swallow back.

You crouch in front of him, slipping off your own shoes before reaching for his. He doesn't stop you. You untie the laces, ease off his shoe, then carefully unfasten the prosthetic. He handles the last strap himself, setting the leg aside before instinctively rubbing the end of his limb with slow circles.

"Did you take your meds?"

"Mm."

"When?"

"Before I left."

You nod, satisfied, and curl your hands around the wheelchair handles.

"I can wheel myself."

"I know." You keep walking anyway.

He looks over his shoulder at you for a beat, then gives the smallest shake of his head—the kind that says you're trouble without a single word. He still lets you push him.

The bathroom door is already open. The tub is full, steam curling lazily through the room. White bubbles drift across the surface of the water.

Jack's eyes widen just a fraction. "Sweetheart..." The word catches in his throat.

You lock the wheels before stepping around to his side. "Let's get you in. It'll help."

He nods once.

Without prompting, he peels off his scrub top and tosses it onto the hamper. His hands pause at the waistband of his trousers. He works them down himself, stubborn enough to keep that piece of his independence, and you busy yourself gathering his clothes instead of watching.

When he's finished, he settles back against the chair for a moment, rubbing the tender skin, his eyes slipping closed. Only when the worst of it passes does he brace his hands on the armrests to stand again.

When he's ready, you step close, slipping an arm around his waist while he grips the support handle bolted to the wall.

"I've got you."

He shifts his weight carefully, jaw clenched against the effort. You don't rush him. One slow movement at a time, he lowers himself into the bath. He grips the rail until the water reaches his hips, only then letting go.

The moment the warm water surrounds him, every muscle in his body seems to loosen.

A long breath escapes him. He closes his eyes for a second before looking back up at you. "Thank you."

You brush a curl off his forehead. "You don't have to thank me."

"I do." His voice is quiet. "I know I don't make this easy."

"No." You smile softly. "You don't."

A tired chuckle rumbles out of him.

"But you still let me," you point out.

His thumb finds your wrist, rubbing it absentmindedly. "Only because it's you."

Silence settles between you, warm and familiar. After a moment, he tilts his head toward the water. "Join me?"

You glance at the water, then back at him. "I don't want to bump your leg."

"You won't."

"You sure?"

He reaches out, his fingers finding yours. "Please."