“You okay?” he asks.
“I think so.”
“Come here.”
I sit across from him.
“We’ll wrap these again. Shower loosened the first set.”
He works in silence at first. Cleans my scrapes. Applies ointment. Wraps my worst cuts.
His touch is careful. Precise. It moves like I’m made of glass.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he says.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s allowed to hurt.”
That makes my throat tighten again.
He moves to my wrists last. The bruises there are darker.
His thumb pauses just above one.
His jaw ticks.
“I’m sorry,” I say without meaning to.
“For what?” His voice sharpens.
“For bringing this here.”
He leans back slightly.
“You didn’t bring anything here,” he says. “They did.”
There’s no room for argument in that tone.
He stands when he’s done and goes to the stove.
“I’ve got stew,” he says. “Nothing fancy.”
“Stew sounds perfect.”
He ladles it into two bowls and sets one in front of me.
The smell makes my stomach twist in a different way. Hunger.
We eat in silence. It’s quiet, but not heavy.
I watch his hands around the spoon. The way he sits. The way he glances toward the windows without making it obvious.
He’s still on alert.
Even now.
“I don’t have to stay,” I say suddenly. “If this puts you in danger.”
