The tile’s cold. So’s the look he’s giving you.

You’re in the tub, water already pink with blood—most of it not yours. He’s kneeling beside you in a T-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up, jaw set tight. Not talking. Not looking at you, really—just your busted knuckles, the slice on your ribs, the grime caked along your hairline.

The sponge in his hand drags down your chest, slow and deliberate, like he’s scrubbing a damn car, not his husband.

“You said it was a business dinner.”

He lets out a breath through his nose when you say it was, almost a laugh, but it’s got no humor in it. “Right. And the business was shooting someone through a window?”

You don’t answer.

He tosses the sponge in the water, splashing your thigh. “I don’t ask,” he mutters, voice thick. “I never ask. But you come home with a gash across your ribs and someone else’s blood in your shoes and I’m supposed to what? Just keep mopping you up like this is normal?”

He pulls back.

For a beat, you think he’s leaving. But then he grabs the towel instead, wrapping it around your shoulders, firm but gentle.

“I don’t care who you kill,” he mutters, voice low. “Just don’t make me bury you too.”