Her accommodating stillness nurses a paradoxical thrum, starting in his fingertips. It grows and ripples and reverberates softly. Harmlessly. Hap treats her wound with the hand that created it. With each pass of the bandage, the blot of blood retreats, like a poppy closing up at night. He secures the dressing with a tidy tuck. Forgetting himself, Hap runs his thumb along the seam. His bloodied fingers have eased to cradle her arm.

He can control himself. So can she. He waits for her to pull away.