Slade had seen worse.

Gunshot wounds. Shrapnel. Blades that didn’t miss on the first strike.

But the way she kept trying to twist away from him like this was personal.

“Sit still,” he ordered, one hand firm at her hip as he guided her back down onto the edge of the sink.

She glared.

He raised a brow.

“I’ve seen you naked before,” he said flatly. “This isn’t new territory.”

The cut along her ribs wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding enough to require attention. He soaked gauze in antiseptic, movements steady and efficient.

She flinched the second the alcohol touched skin.

“Don’t,” he warned calmly. “You’ve taken worse hits than this.”

He leaned in closer, examining the angle of the wound, thumb pressing just beneath it to slow the bleeding.

His voice dropped slightly—not softer, just more focused.

“You can charge into gunfire without blinking,” he muttered. “But antiseptic is where you draw the line?”

Another careful pass with the gauze.

He worked with precision, not rushing, not careless. Every movement controlled.

“Hold still,” he repeated, eye lifting briefly to meet hers. “I don’t miss.”

He finished taping the bandage into place, fingers lingering just long enough to make sure it would hold.

Then he stepped back, giving her a once-over to confirm she was stable.

“There,” he said simply. “Functional.”

A beat.

“And next time,” he added, tone even, “let me take the hit.”

Because Slade didn’t care that he’d seen her bare before.

He cared that she was still breathing now.