A Helping Hand: Part 1

April drives Lyra home from the clinic, one hand on the wheel, the other giving the injured woman’s thigh a steady squeeze. Lyra’s eyes are unfocused, lashes still wet from the day’s tests. April promises to stay the week and do whatever it takes to get her sight back. Inside, April steers her straight to the bedroom and sits her on the edge of the mattress. Lyra heads for the bathroom, fingers groping along the counter until she finds the edge of the sink. She can’t make out the shape of the soap dispenser and keeps missing it, frustration rising with every clumsy swipe. April steps in behind her. “You don’t have to do this alone,” she says, already reaching for Lyra’s shirt buttons. Lyra hesitates, then nods. April peels off the cotton, revealing tight, sun-warmed skin and small, firm breasts that lift with each breath. She drops to her knees to tug down the jeans, her fingertips brushing the smooth plane of Lyra’s stomach. When the last scrap of clothing is gone, April turns on the tap and waits; only cold water rushes out. Lyra’s shoulders shake. April pulls her close, murmuring soft apologies against her hair, then guides the naked woman back to bed. Lyra sinks into the sheets, tension easing the moment her head meets the pillow. April asks what she can do. Lyra answers by leaning up and pressing a slow, grateful kiss to her lips, hands sliding around April’s waist to hold her there.