We pull in, engine ticking down. She swings off and I follow her inside.
The house feels different. Less staging ground. More as though it's something we both live in. I shrug off my cut, hang it on the hook, then pull my shirt over my head.
"Knox." Sharp. I glance over. She's staring at my ribs. "When did this happen?" she says, already crossing to me. Her fingers hover over the bruise, which has spread wide across my left side, the edges yellowing while the center has gone a deep, angry purple that means the damage runs deeper than surface.
The Holloway garage. The support beam I helped Kyle leverage off that woman. My ribs took the brunt when the metal shifted, but there was too much adrenaline and too many screaming people to register it.
"Holloway," I say. "When we pulled that woman free."
"That was days ago. You've been walking around with this and didn't say a word."
"Wasn't a priority."
"Deep tissue contusions are always a priority." Nurse voice. Clinical. Pissed. "You should've said something."
"Why?" I catch her wrist gently. "So you could add it to the list of things you're carrying?"
"So I could've treated it." She pulls free and heads down the hall. "Bathroom. Now."
She's already pulling supplies from under the sink when I get there. She straightens, kit in hand, and points at the toilet lid. "Sit."
"Yes, ma'am," I drawl.
She gives me a look that says don't start and I drop onto the lid. She steps between my knees without hesitation. The space puts us close, closer than professional, and she has to know what that does to me.
"Let me see," she says, fingers already reaching.
I lean back. Her touch is gentle, professional, testing for breaks. Brow furrowed, bottom lip caught between her teeth.
"Does this hurt?"
"Not when you touch it."
A look. "Knox."
"It's true."
Her hands turn me so she can check the mirror. She sucks in a breath. "You have a cut here too. Deep enough it should've been cleaned days ago."
"Do I?"
"Don't play dumb." She reaches for antiseptic. "This could've gotten infected."
"Hasn't yet."
"That's not the point." She dabs with more force than necessary. I hiss.
"Baby," she murmurs automatically, leaning in to blow cool air over it.
My hands find her hips. "Keep doing that and this isn't staying professional."
"I'm cleaning a wound."
"You're touching me." I pull her closer between my thighs. "Nothing professional about what that does to me."
Heat floods her cheeks, but she doesn't pull away. "Impossible."
"And you love it."
