“Don’t make it worse,” I say, my voice lower.
“I’m not,” he replies. “I’m trying to figure out how bad it already is.”
“You’re gonna hate the answer.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”
He shifts closer, more careful now as he lifts the edge of the wrap just enough to see underneath, and the air hits the wound in a way that makes my teeth grit.
“Still bleeding,” he says.
“Not as much.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s what you’re getting.”
He exhales slowly, then reaches for one of the supply crates, pulling it open with a practiced motion.
“You always carry a full med kit in these places?” I ask.
“People who use them tend to need one,” he says, already pulling out bandaging and a small injector.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That tracks.”
He comes back over, kneeling in front of me again, and this time when his hands settle against me, they don’t hesitate.
“This is gonna hurt,” he says.
“Everything already hurts,” I reply. “You’re not introducing anything new.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Do it.”
He does.
The pressure hits sharp, immediate, his hand steady as he resets the wrap, tightening it just enough to control the bleeding. My fingers clamp down on the edge of the table, breath catching despite myself, but I don’t pull away.
“Try not to move,” he says.
“Not exactly my strong suit.”
“I’ve noticed.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty.
It builds.
His hands stay where they are longer than they need to—firm, grounding, heat bleeding through the fabric between us—and my awareness of him shifts in a way that has nothing to do with the injury anymore.
Every point of contact feels sharper.
Closer.
“He killed him,” I say quietly, because if I don’t say it, it’s going to sit there and rot.
Hrask doesn’t look up right away.
