Cleaning blood off his hands without words

The room smells of gunpowder and iron.

Adrian Chase leans against the counter, hands shaking slightly. Blood—his own, someone else’s—you don’t ask questions. Not now.

You approach him slowly, heart pounding, but your movements are calm, deliberate. He glances at you, eyes sharp, tense, but he doesn’t speak. You don’t need words.

You grab a damp cloth, warm, and gently press it to his hands. He flinches at first, but doesn’t pull away. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, but strangely comforting.

Your hands are steady. Yours are the calm in the storm. You wipe the blood carefully, not looking for explanations, not asking for confessions. Just presence. Just care.

He exhales, a low, shuddering sound. His hands are still trembling when you finish. You place the cloth aside and let your fingers linger for a brief moment on his knuckles—soft, grounding.

“I…” he starts, voice rough, but you shake your head gently.

“No words,” you whisper, not even really needing him to hear it.

He studies you, eyes wide, and for the first time, the walls come down just a fraction. You’re not judging. You’re not scared. You’re here.

Finally, he lets out a shaky breath and leans back, letting the weight of the night settle just a little. You sit beside him, hands still close but not touching now, sharing the quiet.

And in the silence, Adrian Chase realizes… he doesn’t have to carry it alone.

You don’t need to say it. He feels it.