Oh no, we can’t have that.
I smile at Tex, “Yeah.”
Jace raises a brow, but he doesn’t argue. He just steps aside. Tex walks inside, sweeping the room, checking corners, making sure I don’t have to.
The hot waterstings where my skin is raw — shoulders scraped, elbow bruised, a cut across my ribs from hitting the ground wrong.
But I don’t care.
I stand under the spray until the ache turns clean. Until the dirt and sweat and blood swirl down the drain and the water runs clear.
When I step out, I pull on one of my oversized tees — soft and worn — and a pair of shorts. My hair’s still damp, pulled into a loose braid down my back.
Tex is waiting on the couch.
He’s set out a small first-aid kit on the table, not the bulky institutional one from the dorm, but a sleek, matte-black, Guild-issued pack.Of course.
He doesn’t look up right away. Just gestures for me to sit.
I do. He kneels in front of me. The moment stretches, quiet except for the rustle of gauze and antiseptic swabs.
“You don’t have to do this,” I murmur.
“I know. But I want to take care of you.”
He takes my arm, his touch light— fingertips grazing along the scrape at my elbow. It’s not deep.
“You should’ve iced this already,” he says.
“I was busy.” I shrug then wince.
The corner of his mouth twitches — the barest hint of amusement. “You almost dislocated your shoulder.”
I lift my chin. “But I didn’t.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just dabs the cut with something that stings. I hiss, and he pauses immediately, not pulling back but softening his pressure.
“Sorry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t stop.”
He wraps the gauze with practiced precision — crisp, clean, controlled. Of course he’s done this before. For himself, probably. For the others. But he’s quiet with me. Focused.
He finishes wrapping the scrape on my arm and reaches for another antiseptic wipe.
“This one might suck.”
I shift slightly, lifting the hem of my shirt to show the bruise forming under my ribs.
He stills.
Then he nods once and kneels a little closer. The cloth is cool against my skin. The contact burns anyway.
“You fought well,” he says.
“Thanks.”
