"Shirt off," I say.
Remy pulls the shirt over his head in one smooth motion... and I forget how to breathe.
Scars. Everywhere. Old ones, puckered and white against tanned skin. Newer ones, still pink. A roadmap of violence written across muscle and flesh. Ink too—tattoos that wind around his ribs, across his shoulders. Some religious imagery I recognize, some symbols I don't.
A body that's been to war and came back changed.
The burns are on his shoulder and neck, angry red patches where heat and debris made contact. Blistered in places. Not severe enough for hospital treatment, but they'll hurt. His ribs show swelling and redness on the left side where the impact hit.
Professional. I need to be professional.
I retrieve supplies from the kit. Antiseptic. Burn cream. Bandages. My hands are steady as I clean the wounds, even though proximity to all that scarred skin makes my pulse spike.
"This will sting," I warn before applying the antiseptic.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't make a sound. Just sits there like a statue while I work.
The burns could be worse. I apply burn cream with careful fingers, hyperaware of everywhere skin touches skin. His shoulder is solid muscle under my hands. Warm despite the burns.
Focus.
"The ribs?" I ask.
"Bruised. Maybe cracked. Not broken."
"You can't know that without imaging."
"I've had broken ribs before. This isn't it." He says it matter-of-factly, like breaking bones is routine.
Maybe for him, it is.
I press gently against his side, feeling for abnormalities. He tenses but doesn't pull away.
"Hurts?" I ask.
"Everything hurts." His voice is dry. "Comes with the job."
"Your job seems terrible."
"It has its moments."
I finish bandaging the burns and step back, putting professional distance between us. "You should rest. Your body needs time to heal."
"Rest later. Right now we need to?—"
An explosion cuts him off.
Not close. Street level, maybe. But loud enough to rattle the windows and send my heart rate into overdrive.
Remy is on his feet instantly, weapon drawn, moving to the window with controlled speed that makes violence look like choreography. He peers through a gap in the curtains, face hard.
"Merde," he mutters. Then, louder: "Get dressed. We're moving."
"What happened?"
"Safe house is compromised." He's already grabbing gear, shoving weapons into a bag with ruthless efficiency. "They tracked us here."
"Tracked us?" I'm moving too, heading for the bedroom to find something wearable. "How?"
