“Your turn,” I say, reaching for the washcloths.
He stills my hands. “I’m fine?—”
“You’re covered in blood,” I interrupt. “And I can see that cut on your face from here. So shut up and let me help.”
He doesn’t argue and we switch spots. He sits still while I start cleaning the blood off his face, revealing the gash across his cheekbone. It’s deep and will probably need stitches.
“You should see a doctor,” I say.
He grunts. “So should you.”
“I’m fine. You’re the one who?—”
His eyes open and his stare bores into mine. “Really? The pregnant woman thinks she doesn’t need to go to the doctor?”
I sigh. Dammit, he’s right. “Fine,” I grumble. “We’ll both see a doctor tomorrow. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he says dryly.
I clean all the dried blood on his face, neck, and hands. His knuckles are split and raw, covered in dried blood. From what I don’t think I want to know.
“Your shirt needs to come off,” I say, gesturing to the blood-soaked fabric. “I need to see how bad the damage is.”
Leo raises an eyebrow, and there’s a hint of that familiar cockiness in his expression. “If you wanted to get my shirt off, all you had to do was ask.”
I pinch his side hard, right where I know he’s got bruised ribs.
“Ow! Fucking hell, you violent woman?—”
I smirk. “Don’t be an ass.”
“I can’t help it,” he says, but he starts to pull his shirt off. He gets it halfway before his right arm protests and he has to stop, pain flashing across his face.
“Let me,” I say, and help him ease the shirt off. It’s slow going because his arm is definitely injured—not broken, but badly sprained maybe. By the time we get the shirt off, he’s breathing hard and there’s sweat on his forehead.
The blood is coming from a long graze on his left side. It’s stopped bleeding, but it’s angry and red and definitely needs to be cleaned and bandaged.
I whistle in disbelief. “This is bad, Leo.”
He shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
I work carefully, cleaning the blood away, dabbing antiseptic on the wound. Leo hisses but doesn’t pull away. His body is tense.
When I move to his arm he actually flinches.
“We need to get this looked at,” I say. “Today. Not tomorrow.Today.”
“After you,” he says stubbornly.
I cut my eyes up to look at him. “Dude, really?”
“I’m not going anywhere until I know you and the baby are okay,” he says firmly. “So we either go together or we don’t go at all.”
Goddammit. I want to keep arguing that he’s more injured than I am, but I can see in his face that he’s not budging on this.
“Fine,” I concede, annoyed. “We’ll go together. Later. After we…after we rest.”