Rachel lowered herself onto the stool, wincing as the movement pulled at her ribs. Ghost moved to the cabinet above the sink and pulled down a white first aid kit.
He set it on the counter beside her with a soft thud, then turned on the small light above the stove. Warm yellow light spilled across the kitchen, just enough to see by without being harsh.
Ghost's hands found her wrists first. He turned them over gently, examining the damage. The zip tie marks were angry and raw, deep red grooves where the plastic had cut through skin, some spots still weeping clear fluid mixed with blood.
He opened the kit and pulled out antiseptic wipes, tearing one open with his teeth.
"This is gonna sting," he said.
Rachel nodded.
The first touch of antiseptic made her hiss through her teeth. The burning was immediate and sharp, like alcohol poured directly into an open wound. Ghost worked carefully, cleaning each wrist with deliberate strokes, his fingers gentle despite the roughness of his hands.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"It's okay." Her voice came out tight. "Keep going."
He finished cleaning both wrists, then reached for antibiotic ointment and gauze. He squeezed a line of ointment onto his finger and smoothed it across the raw skin, cooling, soothing afterthe burn of the antiseptic, then wrapped each wrist with gauze, not too tight, just enough to protect the wounds.
His fingers worked with practiced efficiency. How many times had he done this? For himself, for his team, in the field under worse conditions than a quiet kitchen.
When both wrists were wrapped, he moved to her face. His thumb brushed along her cheekbone, just below the bruise that had darkened to deep purple. He grabbed another antiseptic wipe and cleaned the cut on her forehead where blood had dried in a thin line down her temple.
Rachel watched his face while he worked. The concentration there, the furrow between his brows. The tension in his jaw that hadn't eased since the warehouse.
"Your knuckles," she said quietly.
Ghost paused, meeting her eyes. "What?"
"Your knuckles are split. You need to clean them too."
He glanced down at his hands, blood crusted across the knuckles, some of the splits still oozing. He'd forgotten about them entirely.
"After," he said.
"Now."
Ghost’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. He grabbed another wipe and cleaned his knuckles quickly, efficiently, barely flinching at the sting, then wrapped them in gauze, using his teeth to secure the end since he couldn’t do it one-handed.
When he finished, his hands found her waist again, thumbs brushing against the fabric of his shirt where it hung loose on her frame.
"Baby," he said. "Look at me."
She did. Her eyes found his in the dim light.
"Are you okay?" He needed to know.
Rachel's throat tightened. She wanted to say yes. Wanted to brush it off and move forward because that's what she did, she pushed through. But standing here in his kitchen with his hands on her waist and his eyes searching hers, she couldn't.
"I don't know," she said quietly. "I'm here. I'm breathing. But I can still feel his hands on me. I can still hear—" Her voice caught. She swallowed hard. "I can still hear him."
Ghost's jaw clenched, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer until their bodies were flush, no space between them. "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."
"You got there," she said. "That's what matters."
His forehead dropped to hers. They stood like that for a moment, breathing the same air, grounding each other in the quiet.
Then Ghost pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again. "You don't have to be the one to do this," he said. "We have contacts. Trusted journalists. People who can take what you've got and run with it. You don't have to put your name on this."
