Then I continue.
In. Out. Pull. Tie. Repeat.
Blood beads along the thread. My fingers grow slick.
Maksim's breathing finds a pattern: in through the nose, hold, out through clenched teeth.
I hate that he knows how to do this. I hate that the people who made him gave him pain management skills the way other people give children toys.
"Talk," I say. The cabin is too quiet except for the wet sound of my hands working. "Anything. Don't let your brain dwell on the wound."
A pause.
"What do you want?" he asks, voice strained.
"The first time you saw the penthouse," I say. "What did you think?"
A stitch. Another.
He swallows.
"I thought you lived in a fishbowl." The words come in pieces. "Glass. Everywhere. You could be seen from... any angle."
"And?"
His breath catches when I pull the thread through.
"Didn't make sense," he says. "A man like you... choosing that."
Another stitch. My hands move on memory. The line of the wound is drawing together.
"And now?" I ask.
He gives a small, humorless exhale.
"Now I think you wanted walls without looking like you wanted walls," he says. "Glass is... polite. It pretends it isn't a cage."
It isn't poetic; it's exactly right. It lands in my ribs like a bruise being pressed.
I finish the last stitch and tie it off.
The line is crude, uneven, but closed.
I pack gauze, wrap it tight, tape it down. It'll hold if he doesn't run.
When I sit back, my knees ache.
Maksim's eyes are on my hands.
"You're good at this," he says.
"I'm good at not shaking."
"That's not what I meant."
I look up. His face is pale, lips slightly blue at the edges, but his eyes are awake.
"You take care of things," he says. "Even when you act like you don't."
