It Was Only a Little Water
Why wasn't she wearing anything under her clothes?
Had she really been going around in something that thin this whole time without ever feeling cold?
And if so—then the sensation he'd felt every time Cecilia pressed herself against him before… was that…?
He was going to need to look into women's underwear shops sometime soon.
Thoughts of every kind flashed through his mind and vanished just as fast. What remained was nothing but a blank white void where his head used to be. Before he could even begin to figure out how to react, his brain had simply stopped working.
"…Um."
An awkward silence. The soft drip of a falling water droplet, and then Cecilia was the first to speak.
"I-I'm sorry. Are you okay…? I should've finished listening to what you were saying before I turned it on."
She set the showerhead down and, shyly but with surprising speed, began checking him over. There was no attempt whatsoever to cover her fully exposed body.
"Hold on."
It was her sheer boldness that flustered him instead.
"For now, maybe… cover up a little…?!"
He whipped his head up toward the ceiling, doing everything he could not to look at Cecilia's wet body. A beat later, blood rushed hot into his face. His skin flushed red in an instant.
The one who ought to be embarrassed was her—and yet he was the one burning with shame.
"First, let's wring out the water…"
As if she hadn't heard a word about covering up, Cecilia hurried over to his side. Then her small hands began wringing out his shirt in earnest. Water droplets pattered down with wet, heavy sounds. She was just as soaked through herself, and yet she paid her own clothes no mind at all—her entire focus locked on his.
"Ugh—Cecilia, wait a second…"
Her trembling hands made it plain that she was flustered too. Flustered, and yet she showed no sign of caring about her own body. Pressing in close without covering herself, fretting only over his clothes—it was strangely unsettling.
"I'm really sorry, Eunhyuk. Really…"
Come to think of it, when she was drunk she used to press her body and chest against him all the time. Maybe she simply didn't pay much attention to her own body. Maybe she had so little awareness of her figure—or so little confidence in it—that she didn't care about pressing close or being seen.
"And then, uh, I'll figure out how to dry it somehow. I'll do a good job…"
It was a fairly convincing theory. At the very least, the fact that she wasn't shrieking a cliché Kyaa—! counted as good news to him.
…But even so, letting this situation drag on was not a good idea. She might not care—but he did. He was a healthy young man, after all. He couldn't help reacting.
"I'm sorry…"
He needed to end this quickly. Setting aside Cecilia's muttered apologies and her trembling hands, he lowered his head to tell her they should step outside for now—
"…"
"…Ah."
—and his eyes met Cecilia's, who had been watching his face.
She was red. Extremely, thoroughly red. Completely the opposite of what he'd expected—that she wouldn't care at all.
In that instant, he deeply regretted every self-serving thought he'd just had: that her lack of shame seemed plausible, that her not screaming was good news.
Cecilia's expression was dark and strained. Pale. What colored her face wasn't the fresh, tender emotion of embarrassment or shyness—it was the darker shades of humiliation and anxiety. She was afraid. Her eyes were wet and trembling. Her lower lip, bitten small, showed she was holding something back.
She wanted something. Even as she was mortified by her fully exposed body, she desperately wanted something. And the hint to what she wanted was, ironically, this very situation itself.
She was reading his face.
Ashamed enough to bite her lip, she still clung anxiously to his clothes and wrung out the water—leaving her own clothes exactly as they were. Without even the composure to cover herself.
"I said I'd make up for the housework with my body…"
What was the reason for that anxiety? Did she simply not want the person in front of her to get angry? Or was she terrified of losing his goodwill?
Either way, it didn't matter. She was mistaken.
"Cecilia."
At the sound of her name she flinched hard. He gently set a hand on her shoulder and spoke in a voice full of sincerity.
"It's okay. I'm not mad."
At those few words, her eyes trembled violently once more. A pitiful look, hope and anxiety tangled together.
"Really…?"
"Yeah. …For now, let's dry each other off first."
He opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled out two towels. One he draped over himself; the other he held out to Cecilia. After a brief hesitation, she took it with hands that were still shaking.
"…"
She plopped the towel straight over her head. Those hands were still faintly trembling.
In the end, all he had done was reconfirm a single fact: he knew nothing about this girl. What she feared. What she shied away from. He had no idea.
"It was just… a little water…"
She was timid and highly guarded. That much he already knew.
But over nothing more than turning on the water wrong? Did he really look like someone who flew into a rage that easily? …Or did she hate the thought of being disliked by him that much?
In itself, that could be read as a kind of goodwill—but the degree of it was extreme. At that level it was practically an anxiety disorder. The kind of thing that needed real treatment. …Or at least, if he could find the cause, it might help a little…
"…I'm done changing."
The bathroom door opened and Cecilia came in. Her hair was still damp, but the rest of her was more or less dried off. More importantly, she had changed into a fresh top.
Normally you dried your hair first and then changed clothes—but he had specifically asked her to do it this way. He couldn't leave her standing around in something see-through.
"Come here. Let's dry your hair."
He dug the hair dryer out of the corner of the closet where he'd stuffed it. He'd bought it when he first started living alone and never used it once—he never would have guessed it would come in handy like this.
"Sit in this chair."
"…Okay."
Cecilia walked over carefully and sat down. Her drooping ears caught his eye. The reason they hung like that was almost certainly not just because they were wet.
He switched on the dryer and directed the warm air at her hair.
"Is it okay if I touch your hair? Or do you want to do it yourself?"
"…I'll do it myself."
At that, he handed her the dryer. She took it and began drying her own hair with clumsy, unpracticed movements.
"…"
Her face was blank. She said nothing. At a glance, she might have looked fine.
But her tail and ears were stiff as boards. To him, that was no different from an expression.
"…Want some help?"
"It's fine. I can do it alone."
Her tone was calm, but her voice was very small. She still wasn't in a normal state.
"…Thanks for using it."
"Ah—yeah."
After a little while, Cecilia handed the dryer back. He took it and switched it off. He'd already roughly dried himself earlier, so he didn't need the air. He'd changed clothes, too.
As he was putting the dryer away, he suddenly noticed a spot near her ear that still wasn't fully dry. Pointing at it with his finger was a completely unconscious, thoughtless gesture.
"Cecilia, here…"
In the act of pointing, his fingertip barely brushed her hair. That was all.
"Euk…!"
Her tail jerked upward. The way she ducked her head so fast made it abundantly clear she was trying to avoid his touch.
"S-sorry."
He blurted out an apology on reflex, but there was no response. She only fiddled with her right ear, head bowed.
"…It's still light out, but I'm sorry—would it be okay if I rested my eyes for a bit?"
"Ah, yeah. Of course…"
Inwardly, he wished she would just lash out at him freely. Only now was he realizing how grateful those cliché Kyaa—! scream reactions from manga actually were in real life.
He wished she would show what she was really feeling. Without words, he couldn't know what she was thinking.
Cecilia walked over to the bed and collapsed onto it face-first. Then she gathered up whatever blanket or pillow she could reach, hugged them tight, and curled into a ball.
"…"
Silence settled over the room. The bright afternoon sunlight streaming in, utterly oblivious to the mood, felt strangely hateful.
…His part-time shift started at five. He still had a little time—about two hours of leeway. Enough to kill outside, more or less.
"I'm gonna head out for work for a bit. I'll be back tonight, probably."
He spoke into the awkward atmosphere. This time Cecilia answered with a proper "Okay," though her voice was still small.
"There's some food in the fridge. I'll write down how to cook it before I go, so eat first."
As he spoke, he grabbed a sticky note and began writing. What each dish tasted like, how to heat or prepare it—concise notes for every item. He wouldn't be back until past eleven, so it was necessary.
"I'm heading out."
He put on his clothes and stepped into the hallway. The quiet click of the door echoed softly in his ears.