I lead him into the shower, clothes and all, and help him sit on the bench.
The moment he sits, his shoulders sag a fraction like his body’s been waiting for the weight to be taken off.
I turn the water on. Warm, not hot. The last thing he needs is heat swelling whatever’s already swollen.
I pull my hair up with the tie on my wrist, and then get started on Nico.
His shirt is already torn at the side seam, so I just pull gently, and it rips the rest of the way with a soft tearing sound.
Nico sucks in a breath through his teeth as the very movement lights him up.
“Easy,” he grits.
“I’m being easy,” I snap, and my hands shake anyway as I peel the ruined shirt off him inch by inch.
The bruising under it is worse than I expected.
Dark and wide across his ribs. A mottled bloom along his side. A scrape near his hip that’s still rimmed red.
My stomach drops.
“Nico, what the hell happened?” I whisper.
He looks at me with the eye that can actually still open, but he doesn’t answer. He probably can’t with his jaw anyway.
I swallow hard and keep my eyes on my hands, because if I look too long, I’m going to lose it.
His belt is next.
My fingers fumble on the buckle because they’re not steady, and because it feels wrong to be undressing him like this when he’s hurt.
It shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t be like this. My eyes burn, but I hold it back.
I work the button of his pants and the zipper next. He braces his hand on the bench and raises his hips a fraction. I slide his pants down carefully.
He shifts and immediately winces, breath catching.
“Stop moving,” I order.
He huffs a humorless breath. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s not funny,” I snap.
He reaches up to cup my cheek gently, and I hold his hand there for a second, closing my eyes. Comforting me even when he’s the one injured.
Gently, I put his hand back down and continue undressing him until there’s a pile of his clothes and shoes outside the shower.
I grab the handheld shower head and test the water temperature, then I bring it down and start at his shoulders.
The first rinse sends a thin ribbon of brownish water down his chest. Dust. Sweat. Whatever else he dragged home with him.
He lets out a slow breath through his nose, as if it takes effort not to tense.
“Tell me if it hurts,” I say, and my voice is a lot steadier than I feel.
His eye flicks to mine, and he nods once.
I bite the inside of my cheek and move lower, careful over the bruising along his ribs. The water hits the dark, mottled skin, and my stomach turns again.
