The spray hit. I flinched, sucking in a breath through my teeth.
"Good lass," Kit crooned. "That's the worst bit done. Breathe out. Six count. One, two, three..."
I exhaled. His voice was a metronome. A click track for my nervous system.
"Applying the gel now," he said, uncapping a tube. "Cooling. Hydrogel. I'm going to dab it on. No rubbing."
The touch was feather-light. The coolness was instant relief.
"Better?"
"Yeah."
"Right. Dressing time." He peeled open a sterile pad. "Going to lay this over the line. Then wrap it. I need to apply pressure to secure the tape."
He paused. He waited for my eyes to meet his again.
"Pressure now," he said, unrolling the gauze. "My hand's on yours. Firm grip. Still good?"
The sensation of his hand, large, warm even through the glove, encompassing my smaller one, was overwhelming. But it wasn't the touch that made my breath hitch.
It was the containment.
It was the way he was holding me together while telling me exactly how he was doing it.
"Still good?" he repeated, checking my pupils.
"Yeah," I whispered.
He wrapped the gauze. Over, under. Efficient. Experienced. A drummer's hands, used to taping up blisters and cracks.
"Tape coming across," he murmured. "Securing the wrist. Not too tight? Wiggle your fingers for me."
I wiggled them.
"Perfect. Proper movement."
He smoothed the tape down. He didn't let go immediately. He held my hand, suspended in the air between us, his thumb brushing over the knuckles of my good fingers.
"Tell me stop," he said, his voice dropping an octave, rumbling right in the center of my chest, "and I'm furniture again."
My breathing hitched.
It wasn't pain. The pain was a distant hum now, buried under the gel and the adrenaline.
It was his voice.
It was the specific, narcotic weight of his authority filtered through absolute care. The way he took the thinking away from me.
Antiseptic. Breathe. Pressure. Good lass.
My brain, usually a hamster wheel of analyzing frequencies and exit strategies, had gone completely silent. Silent and... soft.
I felt a flush start at the back of my neck that had nothing to do with the burn. My knees felt watery.
I stared at his chest, at the black t-shirt stretched over muscle.
"Don't stop talking," I muttered.
