She starts cleaning each knuckle, working around the splits, wiping away dried blood. I watch her face instead of what she's doing. Watch the way she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating. The way her eyebrows draw together. The way that strand of hair's falling across her cheek again.
"Why do you do this?" she asks suddenly.
"Do what?"
"Fight. Is it just for the money, or...?"
I consider the question. Consider lying, making it simple. But something about the way she's holding my hand, the way she didn't run when I told her about prison, makes me want to be honest.
"It's the only thing that makes sense," I say. "The only place where what I am, the violence, the rage, all of it, is useful instead of destructive. In here, people cheer for it. Out there..." I shrug. "Out there it just gets you locked up."
"You're more than violence," she says quietly.
"You don't know that."
"Don't I?" She looks up at me. "The other night, when that guy grabbed me, you could have really hurt him. Could have done a lot worse than you did. But you didn't. You just made him leave."
"He wasn't worth the effort."
"Or you have more control than you think you do."
I don't know what to say to that. I don’t know how to explain that control is something I've had to build brick by brick, and some days the foundation still feels shaky.
She finishes cleaning my right hand and reaches for my left. Her fingers brush across my palm and I feel it everywhere.
"You smell like strawberries," I say.
She glances up, surprised. A faint blush colors her cheeks. "My shampoo."
"It's..." I stop. What am I supposed to say? That it's driving me insane? That I want to bury my face in her hair and breathe her in until I forget everything else? "Nice."
"Thanks." Her blush deepens. She's still holding my hand, still cleaning it, but there's a new awareness in the air now.
She knows.
Maybe not the extent of it. Maybe she doesn't realize I'm hard and aching and barely holding myself together, but she knows I'm affected by her. That this isn't just first aid.
"There," she says softly, finishing with my left hand. "All clean."
But she doesn't let go.
We're both still. Her hands wrapped around mine. Me sitting on this chair with her between my legs. The storage room feeling smaller by the second.
"Joanna," I say. My voice comes out low. Strained.
"Yeah?"
"You should probably go. Get back to work before someone notices you're gone."
"You're right." But she still doesn't move. "I should go."
"Yeah."
Neither of us moves.
Her eyes drop to my chest, then lower, then snap back up to my face. She saw. She definitely saw. The flush on her cheeks spreads down her neck.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I can't help it. You're just—" I stop, shake my head. "You should go."
