"Inside. Now."
He's heavy, leaning against me as I help him stumble through the door. I kick it shut behind us and guide him past the counter, through the kitchen, to the back stairs that lead to my apartment above the bakery.
Each step is agony for him. I can feel it in the way his muscles lock up, the way his breathing goes shallow and controlled. But he doesn't make a sound.
We make it upstairs. I steer him to the couch and he collapses onto it, his body too large for the small space. His eyes close briefly, and for a terrifying second, I think he might pass out.
"Stay awake," I say sharply. "Eyes open."
They open. Lock on mine.
I move fast, pulling my old nursing kit from the hall closet. I haven't used it in two years, but muscle memory doesn't forget. Gloves. Saline. Gauze. Antiseptic. Dressings. Bandages.
"Where are you hit?" I ask, already reaching for his jacket.
"Shoulder. Side. Maybe more. Can't tell anymore."
I pull away his shirt with practiced care and help him out of it. The fabric is soaked, stuck to his skin with clotting blood. Underneath, his torso is a landscape of muscle and ink, black tattoos covering his chest, his arms, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
And blood. Fresh, bright red, welling from a wound high on his left shoulder and one lower down just above his waist.
I assess quickly, hands steady despite the situation. Entry wound, clean. I shift him slightly to check his back. Exit wound. Through and through. Sam with the just below his ribs.
Thank God.
"You're lucky," I tell him, reaching for the gauze. "Missed the subclavian artery. Missed bone. Clean through."
"Feels lucky," he mutters, voice rough with sarcasm and pain.
I roll my eyes and get back to work. “Play with guns, you’ll get hurt.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
I clean the wounds efficiently, packing them with gauze, applying pressure. The bleeding is slowing, which is good. No arterial spray. No signs of internal hemorrhaging.
"What's your name?" I ask, keeping my voice level.
"Zakhar."
"Zakhar," I repeat. "I'm Lily. You need antibiotics. You need proper medical care. You should be in a hospital."
"No hospital."
The words are flat, final. No room for argument.
I meet his eyes. They're clearer now, the initial shock wearing off. He's watching me with an intensity that would usually make me uncomfortable. But I'm too focused on the work.
"Then you're an idiot," I say bluntly.
"Probably."
"Who shot you?"
Silence.
I don't push. I think to myself with a shake of my head as I finish cleaning the entry wound, then shift him to access his back. The exit wound is messier, but manageable. I work in silence, packing gauze, wrapping bandages around his torso with practiced hands.
His skin is hot under my fingers. Fever starting, or just adrenaline. Hard to tell.
