She finds him without meaning to.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bare chested, kidney dish with bloody gauze by his side. “Before you panic,” he says without looking at her, voice smooth.

She steps inside anyway.

He finally glances over, mouth tipping into that easy, infuriating half-smile. Sarcasm sits on him naturally, like a reflex. If he jokes about it, it’s manageable.

“It’s shallow,” he adds, already anticipating her objection. “Dermal abrasion. No penetration. Ten out of ten, would not recommend.”

He reaches back awkwardly with gauze, misses the top edge.

She moves closer. He lets her.

There’s a shift when she steps into his space. Subtle, almost imperceptible. The performance softens. Not gone. Just quieter.

Up close, the graze is raw and irritated, skin peeled back in a thin, angry strip. He must’ve rinsed it already; the bleeding’s controlled. Efficient, even in self-care.

She takes the gauze from his hand.

“Ah,” he says lightly. “Supervised medicine. My favorite.”

He turns slightly so she has better access, pretending it’s coincidence. His posture is relaxed, but she can feel the tension under it—the adrenaline that hasn’t fully burned off yet. When she presses to clean it properly, his breath catches for half a second.

He recovers fast.

“See?” he murmurs. “Totally fine.” She doesn’t answer, just works.

He stared straight ahead. Calm. She could tell his mind was already elsewhere—another case he caught when he came in—but there’s something else there. Not vulnerability exactly. More like trust he refuses to name.

She tapes the dressing down with deliberate pressure.

He tests the shoulder once, rolling it carefully. The wince is quick. Controlled. He masks it with a crooked grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still devastatingly handsome,” he says.

Then he reaches for a teeshirt—his gear from SWAT discarded—sliding it on with care he won’t acknowledge.

When he steps toward the curtain, the charm is fully back in place, shoulders squared, expression composed.