Rehab for SuperVillains (18+)-Chapter 19: Rehab working?

Rhea peered into the bag, then back at him—amber glinting, smirk curling slow. "Aw," she cooed, voice dripping mock-sugar, "you do care." She swung the bag over her shoulder, t-shirt swaying, and sauntered toward her room—hips rolling, a tease in her step.

Kael sighed, rolling his eyes—pain tugging his face as he turned. "Just shower, pyro," he muttered, voice dry, boots thudding toward the bathroom.

"Don't miss me too much," she called back, tossing the words over her shoulder—smirk audible, door clicking shut behind her.

Kael twisted the faucet, water hissing hot, steam curling thick into the air. He peeled off his jacket—ribs screaming, blood flaking from his knuckles—and stepped under the spray, heat scalding his skin, washing red and grease down the drain. His hazel eyes closed, breath easing out slow, steam fogging the glass, he could feel his insides healing, slowly and gradually.

Bodies of Superheroes had the ability to heal themselves because of the damage they do to themselves when they use their powers, it's degree varying by how strong they were, but still serious cases like broken bones, deep cuts, severed limbs, would need a medic to heal.

As of now, Kael just hoped that his ribs didn't break. He touched his chest, using Empathic Resonance on himself to increase his heart beat, which in thus increased his blood flow, which would help him recover faster from swellings and bruises.

A villain was dead—neck broken, blood already cold. The Haven could become a target, a beacon for trouble, just as Harris had warned. Should he relocate it somewhere more secure, perhaps within the city? No, that wasn't an option. Who would rent to him if they knew he was sheltering supervillains? Besides, he needed to keep the Haven out of the spotlight—he didn't want the attention that could attract unwanted trouble.

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Kael scrubbed his face, water stinging his nose—pain a dull pulse, grounding him. Rhea was changing—shifting, a spark bending not breaking. Rehab working? Looks positive so far. He exhaled into the steam, uncertainty coiling tight—hope and doubt warring. The water roared, drowning the quiet, and Kael stood still—blood gone, wounds raw.

The faucet hissed, drowning the Haven's quiet, and he stayed longer than needed—twenty minutes, maybe thirty—until his fingers pruned and the sting dulled to a throb. He twisted the knob off, silence slamming in, water dripping soft from his black hair onto the chipped tile.

He toweled dry, rough fabric scraping tender spots—ribs twinging, nose pulsing—and tugged on fresh night clothes: loose black sweats sagging low, a faded gray tee sticking damp to his chest. The mirror threw back a battered face—nose swollen, lip split, hazel eyes shadowed under wet strands—but he shrugged it off, boots scuffing as he stepped into the hall.

The kitchen hit him first—blood gone, Dreck's corpse vanished, tiles cracked but scrubbed clean. Harris's cleanup crew had slipped in and out while he showered, ghosts hauling the thug's weight away, leaving no trace but the wreckage. Kael exhaled sharp, a puff that stung his nose, and scanned the mess—splinters jutting from Rhea's busted doorframe, counter dented, glass glinting in corners like scattered teeth.

The front door gaped, lock shattered, frame splintered—a jolt kicked his chest, breath catching. Rhea could've bolted—slipped out while water roared in his ears, her fire collared but her will unbound. He sped to her room, boots thudding tiles, heart hammering—ribs protesting, pain a dull spike he ignored.

The gray space yawned empty—cot bare, walls stark, bag of clothes he'd tossed her missing—but a faint hiss of water leaked from her bathroom, a steady patter against tile. Kael's shoulders eased, breath slipping out slow, and he stepped back—hazel eyes flicking to her busted door. Lock her in another room tonight? Safety gnawed at him—her past a live wire, her loyalty untested beyond one dead thug. Yet her voice echoed—"I'm on your side, damn it!"—and doubt twisted, a knot he couldn't untie. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, waiting—five minutes, maybe, until she emerged.

Kael's gaze roamed—damages stacking in his skull: door, counter, floor, a job for tomorrow or some hired hand if he could scrape the cash. A corner snagged his eye—white cloth peeking from beneath a broken chair. He crossed over, crouching—glass crunching, sharp under his soles—and tugged it free: the t-shirt and pajama pants he'd bought her, soft cotton crumpled. They must have knocked loose from the bag during the the fight. His brow creased, fingers tightening on the fabric. So... if her clothes were here, what was she wearing now?

Her door creaked—slow, a scrape against busted hinges—and Rhea stepped out, hesitant then bold, amber eyes blazing through a flush creeping up her neck. Red fabric clung tight—a dress, short and sinful, a slash of crimson that hugged her curves, cut low to tease her chest, high to bare scarred thighs. Kael's throat bobbed, a hard gulp he couldn't choke down, as she stalked forward—anger sharpening her glare, blush softening its edge. His hands moved fast, shoving the cotton clothes behind his back—instinct, dumb and sudden, heat prickling his skin as his sweats tightened.

"Is this what you call clothes, you pervert?" she snapped, voice a cute snarl laced with something hotter—her hips swaying, dress molding to every line, seductive despite her scowl. She planted her hands on her hips, amber eyes boring into him—fierce, daring, a spark begging to catch.

Kael's grin broke, slow and crooked—pain tugging his busted lip, ignored. "What? You look good," he said, voice low, rough, hazel eyes tracing her—honest, unflinching. "Really good." His boots scuffed a step closer, glass crunching faint, heat coiling low in his gut.

She blinked, caught—anger flickering, blush deepening—then huffed, crossing her arms under her chest, fabric stretching taut across her curves. "What're you staring at, huh?" Her tone bit, sharp and playful, but her flush betrayed her—amber glinting softer, a crack in her fire.

"You," he said, closing the gap—boots scuffing, breath brushing her warmth. "Hard not to." His gaze held hers, steady, a spark jumping live between them—bruises forgotten, the room shrinking to her red dress, her scarred skin, her heat.

Rhea's lips parted—breath hitching, a tremor in her fire—and she stepped in too, close enough to feel her pulse. "You're a mess," she muttered, amber flicking to his nose, his split lip, the purple blooming on his jaw. "Hospital'd fix that. You sure you're fine?" Her hands hovered, scarred fingers twitching toward his face—care in the gesture, rare and raw.

Kael chuckled, a low rasp—ribs twinging, shrugged off. "I'm good," he said, hand brushing her arm—scarred skin warm, her dress a red flame against his gray tee. "Better now." His voice dipped, gravelly, and he pulled her closer—her curves pressing soft, heat surging as his sweats tightened further. Her smirk flashed, sharp and knowing—amber eyes half-lidded, hands sliding to his chest, careful over bruises—and the air thickened, Haven's wreckage fading to a hum behind them.