“This needs cleaning again,” he said. “Dr. Amir was thorough but you've been moving too much. Tearing at the stitches.”
“Had to get you to safety.”
“I was safe. You were the one bleeding.” He grabbed saline. Started irrigating the wound with steady hands. The cold liquid burned. I bit back a hiss. “Hold still.”
I did. Let him work. Watched his face as he concentrated. Brow furrowed. Jaw tight. Hands steady despite the tension radiating off him.
He'd done this before. Many times. The movements were too practiced. Too sure. Like he'd spent years patching wounds in secret.
“Where did you learn field medicine,” I asked.
“Necessity.” He didn't look up. Just kept working. Gentle butthorough. “When you spend nights bleeding in secret, you learn to fix yourself.”
The admission landed heavy. Confirmed what I'd suspected. What tonight had proven.
He worked in silence for several minutes. Cleaned the shoulder wound. Checked Dr. Amir's stitches. Added fresh gauze. Taped it down with care that felt personal. Intimate.
Then he moved to my ribs. The graze there was shallower but longer. A red line across my side where the bullet had kissed skin and kept going. Dr. Amir had cleaned it but not covered it. Deemed it minor compared to the other injuries.
Sebastian didn't deem it minor. He treated it with the same care. Same attention. Like every wound mattered equally.
His fingers traced the edge of the graze. Feather-light. Assessing. “Does this hurt?”
“Everything hurts.”
“Specific places hurt more than others. Does this hurt specifically?” He pressed gently. I winced. “That's what I thought.”
He cleaned it. Applied antibiotic ointment. Wrapped my ribs in clean bandages that supported without restricting. His hands moved with confidence. With knowledge earned through experience I wished he didn't have.
“Left arm,” he said. “Let me see.”
I gave it to him. Watched him examine where the third bullet had torn through muscle. Where Dr. Amir had dug metal out and sutured deep. Where my hand still wouldn't close properly.
Sebastian's jaw tightened. “Can you feel this?” He touched my palm.
“Barely.”
“And this?” My wrist.
“Yes.”
“Fingers?”
I tried to move them. Two responded. Three didn't. “Some.”
“Nerve damage.” Not a question. A diagnosis. “Might be temporary. Might not be. We won't know for a few days.”
“Will heal.”
“Maybe.” He started unwrapping Dr. Amir's work. Checking underneath. “Or maybe you'll have permanent damage because you're too stubborn to rest properly.”
“Cannot rest. Need to?—“
“Need to what?” His eyes met mine. Green fire. “Need to keep protecting me while you fall apart? Need to bleed out because you won't admit you're hurt? Need to?—“
He stopped. Breath catching. Hands trembling slightly where they held my arm.
“I almost lost you tonight,” he said quietly. “Do you understand that? When that grenade went off. When you threw yourself over me. When I felt you go limp.” His voice cracked. “I thought you were dead.”
