She’s hyperventilating, eyes wide, but no more words come. Just panicked breathing. The shower obviously didn’t do the job—she’s been walking around in shock, going through the motions without actually seeing the mess.
“Kitchen sink.” I steer her toward it. “Now.”
She looks at me, a question in her eyes.
“You missed spots.”
Her hand flies to her hair, fingers searching. She finds a wet clump, pulls her hand away like she’s been burned. A soft whimper escapes—the most sound she’s made in hours.
I turn on the faucet and test the temperature against my wrist. “Bend over.”
She hesitates, then complies. Silent.
She bends over the sink, and I have to step close to reach. Too close. Her hip presses against my thigh. The borrowed shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin above the cargo pants. Bruises bloom purple-black along her ribs.
Focus on the task. Not the curve of her spine. Not the way she trembles under my hands.
I work my fingers through her hair, finding clumps of dried blood, bone fragments, tissue. The water runs pink, then red, then pink again. She’s completely silent except for her breathing—quick, shallow, like she’s fighting not to cry.
The silence is unnerving. Usually, people talk to fill the space—nervous chatter, explanations, anything to avoid the reality of the moment. Even the women I take home usually fill the air with words, telling me what they want, how they want it. It makes things easy. Predictable.
But this woman? She gives me nothing.
No verbal cues. No nervous babbling. Just those golden eyes watching the water swirl down the drain.
It makes me want to figure her out. Makes me want to learn her tells through touch alone, map her responses without the roadmap of words.
Fuck. This is inappropriate. She’s a principal. A job. Not a puzzle to solve with my hands.
“You okay?” I ask, needing something from her. Needing her voice to ground me back in reality.
A tiny nod.
“The water too hot?”
Head shake.
Christ.
I find another clump, work it free gently. “You can talk, you know. I’m not going to?—”
“Everyone wants me to stop talking.” The words come out so soft I almost miss them. “So I don’t.”
There’s pain in that admission that has nothing to do with physical injury.
“That’s their problem, not yours.”
She goes still under my hands. I rinse the last of the blood away, squeeze excess water from her hair, and grab a kitchen towel.
When she straightens, she’s looking at me strangely. Studying me. Then her gaze drops to my side, and her eyes widen.
She points at my shirt. There’s blood seeping through. Shit. The shrapnel from the alley—I ignored it. Adrenaline’s wearing off, and now it’s bleeding through.
“You’re hurt.” Barely a whisper.
“It’s nothing.”
She shakes her head, insistent. Moves closer, fingers hovering near the bloodstain. Her eyes ask permission.
