Everywhere he touched felt electric, oversensitive.
This was, what was this? What were we doing? And why couldn’t I make myself pull away?
I pulled back. Finally. It took effort. Stood before I could do something stupid like lean into that touch. Like let myself believe it meant something beyond trauma bonding and survival instinct.
“Food first.” My voice came out rougher than intended. “You need something in your stomach. So do I.”
I brought him coffee. Helped him sit up carefully, supporting his back. My hand pressed against bare skin between his shoulder blades, hot, smooth muscle shifting under my palm. I pulled away too fast. Jerked like I’d been shocked.
He took the mug in both hands, fingers wrapping around ceramic like he’d never felt warmth before. Took a careful sip. Closed his eyes briefly.
“Better than hypothermia?”
Almost-smile again.
I handed him the sandwich, watched him eat. Everything about him screamed training, discipline.
Who are you? What happened?
I forced myself to eat too, though I barely tasted it. Too aware of him beside me.
The space heater glowed between us. Outside, snow tapped against windows.
Overview of the situation: The man was warm. Fed. His fever was down.
I was alive. So was he.
Now for the hard part.
“Your bandages are soaked.” I gestured to the dark stains spreading across his ribs, the fresh blood seeping through the gauze covering his scalp. “When you caught me, you reopened everything.”
No reaction. Like reopening injuries was just Tuesday.
“I need to change them.”
He watched me gather supplies. Scissors, gauze, tape, antibiotic ointment. My hands weren’t quite steady.
Because this meant touching him again. Extensively.
I grabbed scissors, started cutting away the bandage on his side. The fabric peeled back sticky, revealing torn skin beneath. Three lacerations, all reopened where they’d been healing. Blood welled fresh.
Damn it.
“This is going to hurt.”
He watched me. Just watched.
I cleaned the injuries with saline, my hands working efficiently despite the way his muscles tensed under my fingers. Despite the way heat bloomed wherever skin met skin, the way my breath came shorter, shallower.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sound. Just breathed carefully through his nose while I flushed each laceration, applied antibiotic ointment, closed them with fresh surgical glue.
My fingers brushed the defined ridge of his obliques. The hard plane of his ribs. Scars layered over scars, some surgical, someviolent. His body told stories I couldn’t read, violence, survival, pain endured and overcome.
Even being a nurse with endless hours of experience, I was hyperaware of every inch of skin under my hands, every flex of muscle, every sharp inhale when I pressed too close to a wound.
What the hell was wrong with me?
What the hell happened to you?
