The pancakes sat like a lead weight in Eleanor's stomach, a sweet, syrupy monument to all the things they weren't saying. They'd cleaned the kitchen in a silence that was neither comfortable nor hostile, just thick. The space between them had grown a texture, like the air before a storm.
Willow wiped the last plate, her eyes fixed on some point beyond the window. "I'm still sticky," she said finally, her voice flat. "From before. I need a shower."
Eleanor nodded, her own skin feeling tight, encrusted with salt and sugar and unsaid words. "Okay."
They walked upstairs, the old wood creaking under their separate weights. The bathroom was cooler, tiles chilly underfoot. Willow turned the faucets, and a roar filled the small room. She tested the water with her hand, then leaned over the tub to adjust the temperature, the hem of her t-shirt riding up. Steam began to rise, a slow, gathering cloud.
Without ceremony, she pulled the shirt over her head and stepped under the spray, hissing as the hot water hit her skin. She didn't close the curtain.
Eleanor watched from the doorway, the steam already fogging the mirror, blurring the edges of the world. This was an invitation, or a challenge. Maybe both. She untied her robe, let it fall, and followed.
The water was searing, a blunt-force punishment that felt good. It plastered Willow's auburn hair to her skull and ran in rivulets down Eleanor's back. They stood facing each other, not touching, letting the heat soak into their bones. The scent of lavender body wash mingled with the mineral smell of the water, the salt of their skin.
Willow's eyes were red-rimmed, but it could have been the steam. She reached for the bottle, squeezed a dollop into her palm, and began to soap Eleanor's shoulders. Her hands were firm, methodical, working the tension from the muscles. It was a practical, caring gesture. It was agony.
Eleanor's breath caught. She turned, letting Willow wash her back, the slick slide of her hands a perfect torture. When Willow's arms slid around her waist from behind, pulling her close, Eleanor let her head fall back against her daughter's shoulder. The water beat down on their faces.
"I can't," Willow whispered into her ear, the words almost lost in the drumming spray. "I can't remember it all. I'm trying to take a picture in my head, but it's just… it's feelings. The smell of your skin. The sound you make right before you come. It's not enough."
Eleanor turned in her arms, the water sluicing between them. She cradled Willow's face, her thumbs stroking the high arches of her cheekbones. "Then don't remember. Just feel it now."
The kiss was desperate, a collision of lips and tongue and the warm, clean water. It tasted of tears, though neither was sure who was