She was on the other side of the door. She was inside. She was closing the door. She was ushering him to the bathroom. Forcing him to take a shower without being forceful about it. All she'd done was turn the water on and supplied him with his own towels. Then she was gone again, and Aidan was staring at the water coming out of the shower head like it was a foreign substance.
Subdued, Aidan shed the pajama pants and stood under the stream of hot liquid. It burned his skin at first, but he didn't adjust the temperature, just let himself get used to it. The warmth sank into his skin, through it, to his muscles. The steam became so thick that a person who needed to breathe would have a hard time doing so. First he found the shampoo and conditioner, then the soap. When he was in a good lather from head to toe, he washed it all off.
Getting out of the shower was done at the same speed. Slowly. He turned off the water and stood there dripping for a full minute before stepping out and wrapping himself in a towel. Then he just sat on the lid of the toilet and waited. He was glad for the steam, it made the bathroom seem smaller and had gathered enough condensation on the mirror that he couldn't see more than the vague outline of himself.