I glance down at the blood soaking into the side of my shirt.
Okay.
Fair.
Still—
I cross my arms. “You could at least pretend to be polite.”
“I could,” he says calmly. “Or I could make sure you don’t bleed out.”
I roll my eyes.
“Grazed,” I say. “Not dying.”
“Good,” he replies. “Then this will be easier.”
There’s no winning this.
And honestly?
I don’t try.
I lift the hem of my shirt just enough to expose the wound.
His hand stills.
Just for a second.
Then—
Focus.
Professional.
Careful.
But I feel it.
That shift.
The same one I felt earlier.
His fingers brush my skin as he cleans the wound, and I suck in a breath before I can stop it.
“Still fine?” he murmurs.
“Shut up.”
That earns the faintest hint of a smirk.
But his touch stays steady.
Gentle.
Way more gentle than I expected from someone who just took down half a team like it was nothing.
“You should’ve told me sooner,” he says quietly.
