"Fine," she says, putting them on. "Whatever it takes to get you out of here."
She yanks open the cabinet and pulls some things out. Looks like cotton pads and some alcohol.
She doesn't speak as she pours the liquid onto the cotton and stomps over, grabbing my hand with a little too much force. "This is going to sting," she says, not waiting for me to respond.
She grabs my hand, and I feel the warmth of her fingers, enough through the glove.
She presses the pad into my knuckles, and the sting hits hard.
"These are deeper than before," she says, not looking up at my hand. "You're making a habit of this."
"Maybe I like having you patch me up," I say, and it even surprises me.
She glances up sharply. Her eyes are intense, studying me.
"That would be a waste of both our time," she says, reaching for some wipes.
I don't respond, but she's knocked me off a bit, like a hit you didn't see coming that stumbles you. You need a moment to regain your composure before retaliating.
She keeps working, silent except for the soft sounds of tearing bandage and rustling tape. I watch her face. The way her jaw tightens. The way she refuses to meet my eyes. Her hands are steady but her posture says she's pissed. I kind of like that.
When she finishes, she drops my hand like it burned her. "All done. You can go."
I don't move. Instead, I point to the cut above my eyebrow from our first encounter. "What about this?" I ask. "It's been itching a lot."
Her shoulders rise with a breath she doesn't want to take. She hesitates, then moves closer.
She peels the bandage back gently and examines the cut. Her thumb brushes my temple. This time, her touch is different. Still professional, still careful, but softer. Like something in her cracked a little.
"The stitches dissolved. It's healing fine," she says. "Keep some antibiotic ointment on it, especially before you train. Sweat can introduce bacteria."
"Like now?" I ask.
She sighs and pulls the bandage off completely. She turns and reaches for some fresh supplies.
She steps closer, between my spread legs, her body near enough that I can smell her scent over the antiseptic. It's something sweet. Peaches, maybe.
I can't help it. My eyes drop lower, to the swell of her breasts beneath her t-shirt. They rise and fall with each breath, and I find myself becoming very focused on her.
I look up at her. Not just her hands, but everything. Her lips. Her jaw. The way a strand of hair has come loose near her cheek.
I should hate this woman, shouldn't I? I mean, I've spent three years blaming her for Joyce's death, but my mind drifts back to Keira. Back to what she said.It wasn't her fault. Leave her alone. Blame the Albanians.
The last, I did. Killed ten of them, to be exact. I made sure of that in the weeks after Joyce died. Hunting them one by one, making them pay in blood for what they'd done. I never found their boss, but the soldiers who held her back, who laughed as Joycebled out, they're all gone, and with them eventually their entire operation.
And yet I still held onto my hatred for her. It was easier than admitting that maybe, just maybe, I'd been wrong.
She finishes applying a fresh bandage to my eyebrow, her fingertips gentle against my skin.
I blink and my eyebrow feels better, my hands feel better.
"Well, you are good at this," I say.
"I told you before. It's all I have."
"Is it? All you have?"
"What else would I have?" she asks quietly.
