My breath catches, voice raw. “Don’t go back out there.”
His jaw tightens, eyes darkening.
“Not like this.”
My entire body shivers, teeth chattering.
His hand comes up, palming my cheek. It’s the first warmth I’ve felt since we clung to each other on the rope. I don’t pull away.
“I’m not what you think I am.”
I cover his hand with my own. “Don’t go back out there.”
His head lowers, hand leaving my cheek.
“I’m not asking again.”
I shift to his side, tugging his arm around me. We walk inside together, leaning into each other just to stay upright.
I make him sit on the chair, following his directions and pulling out a first-aid kit. I rifle through it—cotton, gauze,antiseptic, antibiotic cream—lining everything up on the counter before grabbing a bowl of hot water and a towel.
“Sit still,” I order.
“I am.”
“Not like that.” I take his arm before he can pull it back, dragging it into the light. The sleeve is soaked through, mud and blood worked into the fabric.
“You’re going to make this worse,” I mutter.
“Already did that.”
I don’t answer. I just reach for the scissors.
“You’re going to need stitches,” I say as I cut back his sleeve.
He grunts.
I work in silence—too close—breathing in sandalwood and old leather. I can feel the heat of his body next to mine, fingers working gently not to make it worse.
He doesn’t grimace or make a sound. His face is stone, unmoving. But he won’t look me in the eye, like a man who’s failed.
And my mind keeps churning through what he said outside on the line. That they didn’t leave Phoenix. He left them.
My shoulders tense when I pour the antiseptic over his gash. It’s deep and ragged. Too deep. His jaw tightens, teeth grinding. But he doesn’t make a noise or breathe.
I butterfly the cut closed. It takes too long. Then I cover it in fresh gauze and tape. His eyes cast to the side, staring toward the cold hearth when I dip a second towel and swipe the mud from his other arm.
“What are you doing?” he grits between clenched teeth.
“Taking care of you.”
His breath comes out sharp, and his shoulders tighten some more. But he doesn’t pull away or say another word.
The storm grows more distant, receding as I wipe the warm cloth over his neck and face, not looking at him.
Just working.
“I remember you from the funeral,” he says softer.
