Oh, that is worse.
Somehow that is much worse.
“I’m washing my hands,” I say, mostly because I need to move away from him before my brain does something unforgivable.
The sink gives me cold water first, then warm. I scrub until the last pink traces disappear down the drain, until my fingers feel like mine again.
Almost.
When I turn back, Ace is still watching me.
Shirtless. Bleeding. Too calm for a man with a bullet hole in his shoulder.
Too beautiful for my common sense.
I pull on gloves and step between his knees again.
The bullet tore through the meat of his shoulder, ugly but clean. No bullet inside. No arterial bleeding. Painful, messy, but survivable.
“You’re lucky,” I say.
“Been called worse.”
I press gauze to the wound a little harder than necessary.
He huffs a quiet laugh.
The sound rolls through me.
I hate that I notice. I hate that part of me wants to hear it again.
“This will need stitches,” I tell him.
“Do it.”
“I can numb it.”
“Save it.”
I look up. “This isn’t a toughness contest.”
His expression softens by a fraction. “I know.”
“Then let me numb it.”
He studies me for a second, then nods.
Small victory.
My hands steady once I start. Nurse mode settles over me, not enough to block out the fact that his skin is warm under my fingers, but enough to keep me focused. I numb the area, clean it properly, then thread the needle.
Ace doesn’t flinch when I start stitching.
He just watches me.
That might be worse.
“You always this calm?” I ask, tying off the first stitch.