“Shower first.” I stare her down. “Then you can stitch whatever you want.”
I look at her and let her see the need in my eyes. It isn’t just hygiene. I need to wash the feeling of failure off my skin.
She holds my gaze and understands.
“Fine. But I’m helping you. You can’t lift your arm.”
“I’m not arguing.” I step forward.
We peel off from the group. Bronco watches us go, a smirk tugging at his beard. He knows the look. He knows the post-mission crash ends one of two ways: a coma or a collision.
We enter the master suite at the back of the barracks. Spartan. Concrete floors and a king-sized bed. A bathroom that looks more like a decontamination chamber than a spa.
I kick the door shut. The lock clicks automatically.
The silence of the room hangs heavy and intimate.
Leaning against the sink, I stare at myself in the mirror. I look like a corpse fighting its way out of a grave. Blood streaks my forehead. My eyes sit sunken, rimmed with red.
Iris moves behind me.
“Sit.” She points to the teak bench in the massive walk-in shower.
I obey, collapsing heavily onto the wood.
She turns on the water. Steam rises instantly, filling the glass enclosure.
She kneels in front of me, hands targeting my boots.
“I can do it.” I reach for the laces.
“Shut up, Boyd.” She slaps my hand away.
She unlaces them. Pulls them off and tosses them into the corner. Peels off my socks. Unclips my tactical belt, letting the holster hit the floor with a heavy thud. Unzips the Kevlar vest. Eases the torn, bloody thermal shirt over my head, careful of the bad arm.
I hiss as the fabric pulls at the dressing.
“Sorry.” She avoids my face to focus on the damage. The bruising on my ribs. The bandage on my arm. The cuts on my chest from the glass.
She reaches for the waistband of my pants.
She pauses.
“Take them off.” I meet her gaze.
She unbuttons them and shoves them down.
I’m naked. Exposed. Vulnerable in a way that makes my skin crawl, but I force myself to stay still. I force myself to let her see the ruin.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away.
She strips off her own clothes. The ruined parka. The jeans stiff with mud. Her bra. She’s covered in bruises. A livid welt marks her shoulder where the rifle butt hit her. Scrapes cover her knees. But she stands tall. She stands unbowed.
She steps into the spray, pulling me into her arms.
We stand under the water. Scalding hot. It beats down on my head and shoulders, washing away the dried blood, sweat, and fear. The water swirling around the drain turns pink, then brown, then clear.
She grabs a bar of soap, lathering her hands.
