"Let me see the shoulder. Then you can go back to hating me."
She doesn't argue. Doesn't move. Just sits there with her jaw tight and her eyes too bright.
The bathroom is small. Too small for me under normal circumstances, and with her perched on the edge of the tub, there's nowhere to go. I wash my hands in the sink. Gather what's salvageable from the mess on the floor. Move slowly, telegraphing every motion so she can track me.
"I'm going to clean it first. The antiseptic will sting."
A tight nod.
I crouch in front of her. The wound has torn open slightly where she'd been twisting to reach it—not bad, but enough to bleed. She'd been trying to change the bandage herself and lost her balance. Probably caught her foot on the bathmat. Probably hit the cabinet on the way down.
She's stubborn. Too stubborn to ask for help until she was bleeding on the floor.
I clean the blood away with a damp cloth. She hisses through her teeth but doesn't pull back. Doesn't flinch. Just sits there, rigid, enduring.
"The angle's a bitch," I say. "Should've asked for help."
"I don't like asking for help."
"Noticed."
I apply antiseptic. She tenses—every muscle in her body locking up—and I wait. Let her breathe through the sting. Don't rush.
The bathroom has gotten too warm. I'm crouched in front of her, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat. Close enough to smell soap and sweat and skin.
I ease the collar of her sweater aside. Her shoulder is bare now, the wound exposed. The skin there is flushed pink, impossibly soft under my fingers. I can feel the heat of her. The fine tremor running through her that she's trying to hide.
Fresh gauze. Medical tape. My hands dwarf the supplies, dwarf her shoulder, dwarf everything about her. I could break her without trying. Could snap her collarbone with one careless squeeze. Could—
I tape down the edges of the gauze with hands that barely shake. Step back. Give her room to breathe.
"Done."
She exhales. I didn't realize she'd been holding her breath.
She doesn't pull the sweater back up. Just sits there with her shoulder bare, skin still flushed where I touched her. Her throat works. When she looks at me, her eyes have gone dark.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
"Same time tomorrow," I say. "But next time, just ask."
She doesn't answer.
I leave.
The afternoon drags. She goes back to her books. I go back to pretending to fix things.
At some point, the silence shifts and softens. I catch her turning pages instead of staring at them. Her shoulders have dropped an inch. She's settling.
I'm under the sink again—checking the pipes, keeping my hands busy—when I realize I need the smaller screwdriver. Left it on the counter.
I stand without thinking. Cross the kitchen.
She's at the window, back to me, staring at the tree line.
I'm two feet away when she turns.
Her eyes go wide. Not startled—terrified.
