Water runs red off my body.
It streams down my arms, across my chest, swirling pink toward the drain. The copper smell blooms in the steam, mingling with the familiar scent of cedar soap.
I brace one hand against the tile wall and let my head drop forward.
The heat helps. My hands steady, and my breathing finds a rhythm that isn't ragged.
The crash comes anyway—the drop after violence. At the facility, they taught us how to manage it: breathe slowly, unclench, focus on neutral sensations—water, heat, tile.
None of the instruction covered being watched.
None of it covered Ivan's gaze on my bare back.
The shower door opens.
I don't turn.
I stand there with my hand against the wall while Ivan steps into the enclosure behind me.
He is still dressed. I hear the change in the water's sound as it strikes fabric. His sleeves are rolled up—when his hand touches my shoulder blade, there is no cloth between his skin and mine.
"Hold still," he says.
A cloth appears in my peripheral vision, wet and soft. Ivan draws it across my back in slow strokes, wiping away blood I couldn't reach. My skin feels too awake. The touch sends a tight shiver down my spine that I try to suppress.
He works without speaking.
The cloth traces the line of my spine, moves across my shoulders, and dips into the hollow at the base of my back. Where the blood is thickest, he presses harder—patient, steady.
The water at my feet shifts from red to clear.
He is close enough that I can feel heat radiating from him through the steam. Close enough that if I leaned back an inch, I would hit him.
My body wants to.
I keep myself still.
"You were extraordinary," Ivan says. His voice is low, almost lost under the water.
Praise sits awkwardly inside me. At the facility, you were corrected. Silence meant you hadn't failed yet.
"I did my job."
"You did more than your job." The cloth pauses at my side, near the bruise. "You took a hit that was meant for me."
"He was aiming for you."
"Yes." Ivan's other hand presses gently along the edge of the bruise. Pain flashes bright enough to make my breath hitch. "So why didn't you move?"
I turn my head slightly, looking back over my shoulder.
Ivan is soaked. His shirt clings to him, transparent in places. His hair is flattened to his forehead. Steam has put color in his cheeks. He looks younger, stripped down—less like a statue and more like a man.
"Because he was aiming for you," I say again. "If I moved, it would land on you."
"That wasn't your decision to make."
"It was," I reply. The answer is simple. "It was the only one."
