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She almost smiled. That helped.

He wanted to make her smile again and hated himself for wanting anything so ordinary when Rusk was missing and his own leg lay beneath the blanket like a disobedient fence rail.

Eden picked up the cup. “Will you drink?”

“I can hold it.”

She paused. “All right.”

He hated she agreed so quickly. He also appreciated it.

She placed the cup within reach of his left hand, not too close, not too far. He saw the calculation. He also saw she had filled it only halfway.

“Clever,” he muttered.

“Practical.”

He reached for the handle. His fingers closed better than they had that morning. Not well. Better. The cup rattled against the saucer when he lifted it. Eden did not move.

Good woman.

He got it halfway to his mouth before his grip slipped.

Eden’s hand came beneath the cup. Not taking over — supporting.

He drank without spilling more than a few drops.

The tea tasted like leaves and disappointment, but he got it down.

“Good,” she said.

He scowled.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I meant adequate.”

A short, rough sound that might have been a laugh escaped him, and he handed the cup back before his arm gave out entirely. “You’re learning.”

“I am an eager student.”

“No, you ain’t.”

“No. Not especially.”

She set the cup aside and reached for the towel. “May I wipe your chin? You have a little tea.”

His face heated.

He wanted to say no.

The tea was cooling under his jaw, a small wet trail as humiliating as a slap.

He could wipe it himself if his right hand worked. He could perhaps manage with the left, but the towel would drag over his bruised jaw. He might miss, and she would see that too.

A thousand small surrenders.

That was what she had said without saying it.

“Yes,” he ground out.