“I’ll live.”
I glance at the cloth wrapped around his palm. “Judging by the amount of blood I cleaned off that floor, I’d say that’s a pretty deep cut.”
Something shifts in his posture. Barely. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Clean it up.”
I shrug, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “I practically live in that kitchen. I’m not turning it into a health hazard.”
He accepts that. Doesn’t push it. Neither do I.
The cloth is makeshift—torn from something, wrapped tight. The kind of field dressing a person does when they’re used to handling it alone.
“Let me look at it.”
“It’s fine.”
“Do you have a first aid kit?”
“No.”
I stare at him. “Isn’t that listed somewhere in kidnapping 101? Basic medical supplies?”
“Right next to ‘how to stop your captive from becoming your nurse.’“
“Funny. Now show me.”
He doesn’t move. His eyes drop to his hand, then back to me, and for a moment I think he’s going to refuse—that the wall is going to come down clean and final the way it always does.
His fingers flex once at his side. A small, involuntary thing. Then he holds it out the way someone extends something they’re not sure they’ll get back.
I unwrap the cloth carefully, peeling back the layers, and when the last one comes away, the wound opens slightly, a thin line of fresh red appearing at the deepest part of the cut. I hear him draw a breath. Not pain. Something else.
“We need to clean this before it gets infected.”
“Why do you care?”
I don’t look up. “Because if you die, I’ll be stuck in this house with a decaying corpse. And I’ve dealt with enough trauma caused by you, thank you very much.”
There’s silence. Hesitation. Then he gestures toward a cabinet. “In there.”
I find it exactly where he indicated. When I come back, he hasn’t moved. I reach for his sleeve without thinking—professional instinct, keep the fabric clear—and push it back.
Everything stops.
The inside of his forearm is a map I wasn’t prepared for. Horizontal lines, pale and precise, running from wrist to elbow in identical intervals. Same length. Same distance apart. Thekind of precision that isn’t accidental. The kind that took time. Took intention. There’s a fresh one near his elbow. Still crusted. Recent.
I reach toward it without thinking, but his other hand closes around my wrist. Not hard. Just—stops me.
“What are you doing?”
I recognize the tone. The walls going up. I don’t push. I know better than to push. “I don’t want to get blood on your sleeve,” I say quietly. “It’s going to sting.”
A beat, and he releases my wrist.
I uncap the antiseptic and pour it over the cut. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. His eyes stay fixed on my face with an intensity that makes the back of my neck prickle, and I focus on his hand, on the cleaning, on the precise mechanical task of doing this correctly. But I feel it. The pressure of being watched by someone who never looks at anything casually.
