"I can undress myself," I said, because some habits deserved a funeral but apparently refused to die.
Yuche looked at me like I had said something mildly interesting and completely irrelevant. His hands were already at my shirt, working through blood-stiff fabric with the same calm precision he used on locks, weapons, and every bad decision that had ever had the misfortune of standing in his way.
"I know," he replied.
That was it.
No argument. No soothing nonsense. No lecture about how exhausted I was or how I needed to let someone take care of me before I collapsed from stubbornness.
Just that. 'I know.'
Then he slid the ruined shirt off my shoulders like the fact that I could do it myself had never been the point.
Annoying man.
Worse, a very familiar man.
Yuche did not touch me like this was new. He did not move like someone testing the edge of permission for the first time.
