I finally look at him. “I said no.”
He looks back at me, eyes doing some sort of calculation, before he exhales. “You tear something, you’re off rotation. You want the rest of us pulling double because you’re too proud to get checked?”
“I want to finish my work,” I shoot back. “And I don’t need?—”
“I can help.” Kira’s voice comes from behind me.
When I turn, pain slices down my arm. I hiss before I can stop myself.
She’s standing a few feet away, bundled in her coat, hair pulled back, concern plain on her face.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
She lifts an eyebrow,not buying it.
Atlas glances between us, then takes a step back. “I have inventory to check. Try not to break anything else.” He leaves without another word, trusting, damn him, that Kira won’t let it drop.
She doesn’t.
“Come inside,” she says gently. I’m ready to dig my heels in, but she’s already turning toward the house.
“I don’t need?—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, either.” She echoes Atlas’s tone in a way that makes something twist in my chest. Her voice is gentler when she says, “Let me take a look at it.”
I hesitate as every instinct tells me not to let anyone see weakness. Not to need care.
Then she turns back toward me and fixes me with a calm, capable look. She doesn’t seem worried, and there’s no pity in her eyes.
“Fine,” I mutter.
She smiles and leads the way. Against my better judgment, I follow.
Inside, she has me sit on the bench while she retrieves the aid kit. “Did you dislocate it?” she asks.
“No.”
“Strained?”
“Maybe.”
She hums, then steps closer. “Shirt.”
I blink. “What?”
“Take your shirt off.” She gives the hem a tug. “Is it easier if I get it?”
I should’ve let Atlas deal with this when I had the chance.
With a sigh, I unbutton my flannel shirt and let her pull it free of my arms. Once that’s out of the way, she peels my t-shirt up and over my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Her fingers are cool as they skim over my shoulder and the whole area around it. She presses gently, doing an assessment that’s surprisingly efficient.
“You’ve had worse,” she says eventually.
“How can you tell?”
She gives me a faint smile. “You don’t flinch.” She checks my range of motion and palpates the muscle with confident movements. When she hits the sore spot, my jaw clenches.
