The sponge is rough even when dripping and I wince as you press it down to my knee. The skin is sore and still bleeding slightly and I have never been the best at dealing with pain. Lukewarm water, slightly salted, runs down my bare leg but I ignore it. Your drop the sponge into the bowl and it makes a strange sound that makes me smirk despite the sting. You lean forward in slow motion and blow, ever so gently, on the graze. I gasp sharply at the sensation but it soon passes and I sigh, relieved.

You tell me that I will have a bruise in the morning and I shake my fringe into my eyes and nod pathetically. You reach up and brush the hair back, that look in your eyes that I recognise but still can’t place. You would think I’d know you by now.

“Ready?” you ask and I nod again. Glance down at my knee.

The bleeding has stopped and a dark brown clot is forming on the outside. It doesn’t look so bad now and I wonder why I was so upset about it. I look up at you and you help me to my feet and I know why but refuse to admit it to myself. It would make me weak and foolish and I am neither of those things.

I wake in the morning with a bruise on my knee.

And you in my bed.

And I know why.