The river was quiet this time of night, the only sound the gentle lapping of water against the shore and the distant hum of the camp behind them. Firelight flickered between the trees, too far to reach them, leaving only the moon to cast silver ribbons along the water’s surface.

Javier exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, watching the way you sat there—still, too still, like if you moved, something might break.

“Alright,” he murmured, rolling up his sleeves, “this is gonna be cold.”

He crouched by the riverbank, dipping a cloth into the water, letting it soak through his fingers before wringing it out. The fabric was already dark with dirt and dried blood, evidence of what you’d been through, though he hadn’t asked about it. Not yet. He figured you’d speak when you were ready—or maybe not at all. That was fine, too.

He pressed the damp cloth to your arm, wiping away the grime caked into your skin. He worked slowly, methodically, like one wrong move might send you shattering apart. The river was cold, even in the summer, and he could feel you shiver beneath his touch, but you didn’t pull away. That was something, at least.

“You’re lucky, you know,” he continued, voice low, a little rough. “Not many people make it back from something like this.” He wrung out the cloth again, watching the water cloud with dirt before starting on the other arm. “The others are gonna talk real big about revenge and all that, but you don’t worry about that right now. You just need to get better.”

The wound on your temple had stopped bleeding, but the skin around it was swollen and bruised. He wiped around it carefully, his touch gentler now, slower. The firelight caught the side of your face, highlighting the sharp contrast of bruises against your skin.

You'd been rescued, taken in by this gang of down-and-out's, but part of you still felt frozen in time, as if you were still captive.