Her voice is soft, still thick with sleep.
I look down. Her eyes are open, studying me.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you decide you messed up before asking me.”
I huff out a breath. “You’re sore.”
Her mouth curves slightly. “I’m feeling very good, actually.”
“That’s not the same.”
She pushes up onto one elbow, hair falling over her shoulder. There’s no fear in her eyes. No regret.
“You listened,” she says quietly. “You paid attention to me the whole time. You didn’t rush me. You didn’t take anything.”
Her fingers slide up my chest, grounding.
“I gave it.”
The words land deep.
I close my eyes for a second, then open them again. “I don’t ever want you thinking I took something from you.”
“You didn’t.”
She says it like fact. No hesitation.
I sit up slowly and swing my legs off the bed.
The med kit’s still on the small table in the living room where I left it last night.
Old habits.
I grab it and come back to the edge of the bed.
“You’re not done being patched,” I tell her.
A faint smile touches her mouth. “You’re relentless.”
“Yeah.”
She shifts so she’s sitting in front of me. I take her wrist gently, peeling back the tape I wrapped last night.
The skin underneath looks better. Less inflamed. Still fragile.
“You tell me if it hurts,” I say.
She watches me instead of the wound. “It doesn’t.”
I clean it again anyway. Rewrap it snug but not tight.
When I press the tape down, I bring her wrist to my mouth and kiss the inside without thinking.
Her breath catches.
I move to the shallow scratches along her calf, brushing antiseptic over them. Then the bruised arch of her foot. My thumb traces the curve before my mouth follows.
