I could tell as soon as he saw the way I was holding my arm that he knew I was injured. He saw the tightness around my eyes.
He set the drum key down. He didn't stand up. He stayed low. Non-threatening.
"Z?" His voice was a low rumble, steeped in Manchester rain. "You alright?"
My throat felt tight. Asking for help felt like handing someone a loaded gun.
"I..." My voice shook. I hated it. "I need help."
Kit didn't launch into action. He didn't gasp. He didn't rush me.
"Copy," he said. His tone shifted. It went flat, calm, professional. "What's the damage?"
"Burn. Soldering iron. Left palm."
"Right." He moved then, but he telegraphed it. "I'm standing up now. Going to the kit bag in the kitchenette. You sit on the sofa? Or stay standing?"
"Standing," I said. Sitting felt too vulnerable.
"Standing. Sorted."
He moved past me, keeping a wide arc. He returned a moment later with the first aid kit, the serious one, not the dingy box with three gauze pads and a dried-up tube of antiseptic.
He set it on the table. He snapped on a pair of black nitrile gloves.
"I'm going to come into your space," Kit said, locking eyes with me. "I need to see the hand. Permission to approach?"
"Yes."
He stepped in. He stopped two feet away. Heat radiated off him, warm and solid.
"I'm narrating every move," he said softly. "Not because I think you can't handle it, but so you know what's coming. No surprises."
I nodded. The pain in my hand was sharp, but his voice was... heavy. It occupied the frequency range usually reserved for panic.
"Reaching out now," Kit murmured. "I'm going to take your wrist. Just the wrist. My left hand on your left wrist."
He moved slowly. His gloved fingers wrapped around my forearm. His grip wasn't tight, but it was absolute. An anchor.
"Got you," he said. "Lifting the hand to the light. You tell me if the angle hurts."
"It's fine."
He inspected the burn. He made a small noise in his throat, a sympathetic hum.
"Clean line," he assessed. "Second degree. Stings like a bastard, I bet."
"Like clipping audio," I managed.
"Right then." He reached for a bottle with his free hand. "Antiseptic first. This is the spray. It's cold, then it burns. Will sting. Two-count. Breathe with me."
He looked at me. "Ready?"
"Ready."
"One. Two."
Hiss.
