Cleaning the grime that had clung to my skin.
His thumb traced gently under my eyes.
Then along my jaw.
Then across my lips.
He moved to my neck next.
Careful.
Methodical.
His fingers pressed lightly over bruises there — assessing damage.
Then my shoulders.
My arms.
He lifted each limb slowly, turning it in his hands like he was checking for fractures.
Like he was making sure nothing had been broken beyond repair.
When he reached my stomach —
He stopped.
The bruises there were darker.
More severe.
Evidence of where fists had landed.
Where boots had pressed.
His jaw tightened visibly.
His hand hovered over the largest mark.
His thumb touched it softly.
Not pressing.
Just acknowledging.
His voice dropped lower.
“I’m sorry.”
The words came out rough. Raw.
“For all of it.”
I swallowed hard.
My eyes burned.
“It’s not your fault,” I whispered.
