Wandering Spirits

Chapter 10

Storm's arms were firm and supportive around Freja's trembling body as he gently carried her over the threshold of his own apartment. With her feet planted on the cold parquet floor, she clung to him like a child refusing to let go of their parent's neck after a nightmare. He felt her quick breath against his neck, and the way she pressed herself against him revealed a vulnerability that was unexpected for a girl who had survived alone in the woods.

"You are safe here, Freja," he reassured with a voice that tried to be as soothing as a teacher's when telling an exciting story to young children. "No one else but me here."

He noticed how the water dripped from her soaking wet clothes to the floor, forming a small puddle around them. The clothes clung to her body like a second skin layer, and he observed with concern that she shivered from the cold as if she were a leaf caught in an autumn storm.

"A bath would probably do you good, and some dry clothes," he suggested while trying not to let his gaze examine her condition too closely.

Freja looked up at him, her eyes wide and brown, captured by fear. She shook her head firmly, her self-cut blonde locks dancing chaotically around her face. Storm could almost see how the thought of being alone, even just a room away, filled her with panic.

"But you can't just stand there and freeze," he insisted gently, but with an authority that he rarely used.

She looked at him with a gaze that was more childlike than stubborn, and his heart softened. Here she was, a young woman who had been tough enough to survive in the wilderness, but who now stood so vulnerable in front of him.

"I can arrange new bedding for you in my bedroom," he continued, already starting to plan where he would find an extra set of sheets. "And I... I can take the sofa tonight."

"I'm bathing. Only if you help me," she said so softly that he almost didn't catch it.

He stopped and let this new information sink in. He thought for a moment, and in the background he began to imagine how he would navigate this without crossing any invisible boundaries.

His hands hung limp at his side as he watched her, who still clung to him. The thought of helping her wash herself made panic breathe down his neck. He was a man who lived by instincts and impulses, not by scrubbing the backs of girls he barely knew.

"I can't do it well enough on my own," she muttered, and her eyes lit up with something so tender that Storm felt an unknown protective instinct growing inside him.

He entered the bathroom. He turned on the tap, and the water began to gush out, mixing with soap bubbles dancing in the bathtub. He knew that people helped each other in this way all the time, in nursing homes, in hospitals. It was a part of life - a natural thing. But here, in his own home, it felt like he was balancing on the edge of something unheard of.

"Okay," he said hoarsely, his voice more of an echo than an assurance. His breath felt sharp against the damp air in the room. He let his hands slide along the tiles, over the edge of the bathtub, checked the temperature before turning his back to her.

"Its ready," he said, and Freja mumbled a question about where she should put her wet clothes. "Just throw them in the washing machine," he replied, feeling his cheeks warm at the thought of her standing there without a stitch on.

Hands in front of his face, as if they could shield him from the realities of the situation, he felt the movement in the air as she walked past him towards the machine. There was an almost electric charge between them, or maybe it was just his own nervousness playing tricks on him.