The Knife's Edge of Care 2

He laughed louder this time, the sound rich and full, and she knew his shoulders were shaking with it. She could feel his mental image of her, bright red and sputtering behind the door, and it only made her angrier. "Guilty," he admitted, not sounding guilty at all. "But you passed out in my arms, what was I supposed to do? Close my eyes and carry you blind?" His amusement was a live wire. "Just hurry up and wash, before I decide to come in there and help you."

"No don't even dare to," she warned, but the threat lacked its earlier force. She was tired, and the adrenaline was fading, leaving a dull, heavy ache in its wake.

A soft tap of knuckles on wood answered her. "I don't dare? Come on, detective. You wound me." His voice was thick with that dark amusement, pitched low,, so it seemed to seep through the door itself. He was closer now; she could almost feel his breath on the other side of the wood. "I'll stop teasing. Just hurry up. The water's going to get cold If you keep yelling at me through the door."

She sank deeper, letting the water cover her shoulders. He was right. The water was already losing its feeble warmth. She moved to shift position, a slight adjustment, and a sharp, searing pain lanced through her, stealing her breath. A gasp escaped her, sharp and involuntary. "Oh shit."

The change in his demeanor was instantaneous. The playful laziness vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp alertness. "What is it?" His voice was all business now.

Her fingers touched the tender, abraded skin high on her inner thigh, and came away smeared with a thin, bright red. The struggle, the frantic grab in the dark alley—it had been more than just a rough handling. "It's bleeding," she whispered, the fight draining out of her completely.

The doorknob turned under his hand, but he didn't push it open yet. His voice was steady, but there was a blade of urgency beneath the calm. "Where is it bleeding? Tell me now, Elena. I’m coming in unless you say otherwise. Don’t be stubborn about this."

Humiliation warred with a throbbing, very real pain. "Down there," she managed, the words barely audible. "Don't come in."

There was a frozen silence from the hallway. She could picture him, jaw tight, calculating. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, firm, leaving no room for argument. "Alright. I won't come in." She heard him moving, the rustle of a cabinet opening. "But I'm leaving bandages and antiseptic right outside the door." Another pause, his voice softening just a fraction. "It's from when he grabbed you, isn't it? Just… patch yourself up, and yell if you need me. I'm right here."

The door was a barrier, but his presence on the other side was a solid, undeniable fact. She hauled herself out of the tub, water sluicing off her body, the cold air raising goosebumps. The towel he’d brought was coarse but clean. She wrapped it around herself and cracked the door open just enough to grab the supplies. The antiseptic bottle was cold in her hand. "Fuck that MFS," she muttered under her breath, anger flaring again at the men who’d done this. Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, she awkwardly tried to apply the stinging liquid to the cut, her hands shaking. The angle was impossible. "How i will put bandages!" she hissed in frustration, the task feeling insurmountable.

He heard her fumbling, the muttered curses. "I can help you." His voice was closer again, right outside the cracked door. It was gruff, but there was a gentleness layered underneath. "I won't look anywhere I shouldn't." A beat of silence, as if he was choosing his words carefully. "You know you can't do it one-handed. Just let me in."

Pride was a feeble thing against the persistent, burning throb. "I'm trying," she said, her voice strained with the effort and the sting.

A light rap on the door again. His voice was softer now, the sharp edge worn away by concern. "Alright, take it slow. If you need a hand after two more minutes, I'm coming in whether you like it or not. Stubbornness won't fix a bleeding cut."

She tried, her fingers slippery and clumsy. The antiseptic dripped, cold and sharp, and the pain made her vision blur. A sharp, involuntary hiss escaped her clenched teeth.

That was all it took. The door pushed open slowly, carefully. He stepped inside, and his eyes, dark and intense, immediately found her. She was perched on the edge of the tub, towel clutched tightly around her chest, one hand pressed against the inside of her thigh, her face pale. The bathroom suddenly felt very small, filled with his presence.

"That's it. I'm coming in," he said, his voice low and final. He turned the knob and stepped inside, his gaze immediately locking onto where she was perched on the tub's edge, one hand pressed protectively between her legs. The air in the small room shifted, the steam suddenly feeling heavier, charged with a new kind of tension. "Easy," he said, his voice dropping to a rumble meant to soothe. "I'm just here to help." He knelt on the tile floor, the supplies in his large hands looking strangely delicate. "Turn around and prop your leg up on the edge. I'll do this quick."

The command was gentle but left no room for refusal. She turned gingerly, presenting her back to him, and lifted her leg to rest her heel on the cool porcelain rim. The position was deeply vulnerable, exposing the injury and so much more. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself.

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