He flexed them.
“Good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m delighted. Don’t ruin it.” She cut a strip from one of the spare thermal layers and made a sling for his left arm before he objected.
When he opened his eyes again, the rawness was still there—pain stripping away whatever filter he normally kept between himself and the world. For a second his eyes were unguarded and it hit her somewhere beneath her ribs.
“You knew what you were doing.”
“I do occasionally.” Her smile was tired. “Don’t thank me yet. I need to check?—”
Blood seeped through his fleece.
“Pav.” Her breath hitched.
“What?”
“You’re bleeding from somewhere else.”
He glanced down, then back at her. “It’s a scratch.”
She pushed the unzipped edge of his fleece aside. Beneath it, his shirt clung damply to his chest.
“I need to see it.”
He gave a clipped nod.
She unbuttoned only what she had to, keeping her hands steady because they were doctor’s hands and this was a wound. A short diagonal slash ran from his left pectoral across his ribs—shrapnel from the drone, hidden beneath his clothes until now.
The bruising from his cracked ribs lay beneath it, purple fading to yellow at the edges. And now this—a fresh wound scored across the old damage.
Superficial laceration, no muscle involvement. But the edges were dirty, and field-clean was not clean.
His skin was warm under her fingers, his heartbeat strong through the wall of his chest as she flushed the wound with the last of the antiseptic. He hissed, sharp, through his teeth. The first sound of pain he’d made.
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, Harper.”
“Stop getting hurt.”
She rocked back on her heels to collect butterfly strips. She focused on the clinical work of closing the laceration, not the heat of him under her hands or the way his stomach tensed when her fingers brushed lower.
She taped the last strip. Smoothed it down. Her palm flat against his chest for a second too long. It would hold even if the conditions were less than ideal.
She pulled her hands back. “Tell me if the bleeding restarts.”
“Yes, doctor.”
Was there the faintest edge of humor in that?
She busied herself with the med kit so he wouldn’t see her face. “If you feel dizzy, nauseous, or your vision changes?—”
“I’ll tell you. I’m fine, Harper. I’ve survived far worse.”
“Will you actually?”
