The Mouse and The Monarch

21

At first, it was a gentle touch of fingers, as if a fleeting breeze had brushed against her exposed skin.

Then, the warmth intensified, transforming into a searing sensation that tore through the numbing haze of fatigue.

A sharp intake of breath escaped Ophelia's lips, her eyes snapping open in response to the unexpected assault on her senses.

The pain, fierce and unrelenting, radiated from the point of contact.

Her nails sunk into the arm above her as she hissed in pain.

"S-shit, sorry," he stammered, his voice carrying the weight of regret.

His gloved hands, accustomed to precision, now moved with a hesitant tenderness as he gently pressed down on her wounded side.

The tears welled in Ophelia's eyes as the pain throbbed through her body.

Her gaze drifted downward, revealing a wet cloth in his hands, pressed against her side.

The fabric absorbed the blood wiping away grey dirt and snow.

"We don't have a medic?" she questioned, her voice stiff, the words punctuated by a groan as he continued to tend to her wound.

His eyes, a shade of blue as changing as the ocean, briefly met hers.

It was a look that spoke of capability.

Her head fell back in annoyance and surrender.

Of course, he was the fucking medic.

"I need to shower, otherwise it won't clean properly," Ophelia declared, frustration lacing her words as she felt the tackiness of blood clinging to her skin.

Her own blood and that of others.

The man in front of her stiffened, his eyes darting around the barracks as if searching for an answer.

Ophelia winced as he continued to press the cloth against her side, the pain now accompanied by the discomfort of being covered in blood.

If they didn't clean it off it would infect the wounds on her arm and side.

There would be no point stitching her up, she'd die of infection.

He knew that. But he was hesitant for some reason.

It took a while but he finally nodded in understanding, Ophelia couldn't help but sense the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders.

"Wait here and don't die," he instructed, the words delivered a gravity that belied the unexpected humour.

A loud, unbridled laugh escaped Ophelia's lips in response to his directive.

"You're funny," she remarked sarcastically, the levity of her words momentarily cutting through the tension that hung in the air.

He moved swiftly across the room, his purpose evident in every step.

She'd always know when he was walking, it was a soft thudding sound that rang around the room.

The door to the bathroom creaked open, and the sound of running water filled the barrack.

Ophelia listened, the rhythmic flow of water merging with the sound of him moving around.

As the water continued its cascade, Ophelia closed her eyes, allowing the symphony of sounds to envelop her.

Sounds were good. Sounds meant she was safe.

A minute later, he returned, his demeanour now transformed from uncomfortable to incredibly calm.

With quiet efficiency, he helped Ophelia shed the rest of her clothes, his eyes dancing around the room and not once falling on her body.