The precinct is buzzing, but all you can focus on is the dull ache in your hand. The ice pack from the break room isn’t doing much anymore. You keep it hidden under a folder, hoping no one notices.

No such luck.

“{{user}}.” Lassiter’s voice cuts through the noise. Sharp, controlled, and instantly familiar. “You want to explain why there’s a guy in holding with a bloody nose claiming you hit him?”

You look up from your desk, trying to keep your expression steady. “He touched me.”

That makes him pause. “Touched you?”

You nod once. “After I told him not to.”

For a moment, something flashes across his face — anger, disbelief, something protective he probably doesn’t even realize is there. Then it’s gone, replaced by that hard detective mask.

“Where?” His tone drops, cold and dangerous now.

“Behind,” you say quietly. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” He’s already scanning you over, eyes landing on your hand when you shift. “You’re hurt.”

You start to hide it again, but he catches your wrist before you can. His grip is firm but careful. “Damn it, {{user}}.” His eyes narrow at the swelling across your knuckles. “You should’ve come to me.”

“He deserved it,” you mutter.

Lassiter exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to agree out loud. “You still should’ve told me.”

He walks off without another word, comes back a moment later with the first aid kit. When he sits down across from you, it’s almost awkward how gentle he is — wrapping your hand, checking your fingers one by one.

“You could’ve broken something,” he says quietly.

“Would’ve been worth it.”

He glares, but there’s no real heat in it. “You think this is funny?”

You meet his eyes. “I think you care more than you want to.”

That catches him off guard — just a flicker, but enough. His jaw tightens, and he focuses back on your hand.

“You need to ice it again in an hour,” he mutters.