It starts the same way most mornings do.

Vi’s already awake before you, sitting at the edge of the bed in the pale, warm light that leaks through the blinds. Her hair’s damp from the shower, curling against the nape of her neck, and there’s a roll of bandages perched on her thigh. She’s got that look again: eyebrows drawn in tight, mouth pressed thin. Almost like she’s steeling herself for a fight.

You don’t say anything right away, don’t announce that you’re awake. You just watch her hands, carefully, almost nervously, tugging the fabric across her chest. She’s done it a hundred times, but still she pulls too hard, the roll slips, bunches, then falls to the floor with a thud.

She curses under her breath, low. “Fuckin’ thing won’t stay.”

Her voice is clipped. She picks it up then starts over again.

From your side of the bed, you prop yourself up on your elbows and finally speak. “You know, you could let me help,” you murmur, sleep still heavy in your voice.

Vi doesn’t look at you, just grunts, pulling the bandage across tighter this time. “Nah, baby. I got it.”

Lies. She doesn’t. The roll slips from her fingers and tumbles to the floor again. She groans, head dropping forward, shoulders hunching like the weight of it all is pressing her down. For a second, she just sits there, staring at the floor.

You slide off the bed and cross the room, crouching to pick up the roll. When you hold it out, she finally looks at you. Her cheeks are pink—not from effort, but from being caught.

“It’s not that bad,” you say gently. “You’re just pulling too quick. Slow down.”

She hesitates, then sighs. “Feels like I’m never gonna get it right.”

“You will,” you promise, settling beside her. You brush your fingers lightly over her arm. “Let me?”

For once, she doesn’t argue. She just hands you the end of the roll, eyes darting away, embarrassed. That small act of surrender making her vulnerable in a way that throwing punches never could.

You start wrapping, careful, steady. The fabric stretches snug across her chest, smoothing over where she’d fumbled. She sits impossibly still, muscles taut, like she’s scared to breathe wrong.

“…You don’t have to hold your breath,” you tease softly.

Vi huffs a laugh through her nose, though it’s shaky. “Feels weird, you doin’ this.”

“Weird good, or weird bad?”

“...Both.” She shrugs, eyes fixed straight ahead at the mirror. “Just don’t like the way it looks. The way I look. Too much up here, y’know?” She flicks her chin toward her chest, a quick, sharp gesture. “Want it gone, honestly.”