Soap pulls out.
The wet sound of it is obscene in the quiet bunker. He moves slowly, carefully, his cock sliding free of her body with a soft, slick pop. The sudden emptiness makes Sam gasp, a sharp intake of breath that’s more shock than pain.
He doesn’t go far. He stays kneeling between her thighs, his hands moving to her hips, holding her steady. His eyes are locked on where he just was. The dim emergency light casts harsh shadows, but it’s enough.
“Let me see,” he says, his voice a low rasp stripped of all teasing. It’s a medic’s command now, but his touch is anything but clinical.
He guides her legs wider, his thumbs pressing gently into the soft skin of her inner thighs. Sam flinches, a full-body tremor. She tries to close her knees, a reflexive curl of shame and vulnerability, but his hands are firm. “Easy, lass. Just let me look.”
She’s a mess. Slick with her own arousal and him, glistening in the low light. But there, mixed with the wetness, is a faint, telltale smudge of red.
Soap’s breath catches. A soft, pained sound escapes him. “Christ.”
His thumb, callused and broad, strokes her inner thigh, not touching the heart of her but so close. His head bows for a second, his shoulders tense. When he looks back up at her face, his blue eyes are dark with a regret so profound it steals the air from the room. “I hurt you.”
It’s not a question. It’s a confession.
Sam’s own gaze is fixed on the concrete ceiling. Her chest rises and falls too fast. The split lip throbs in time with the deeper, aching pulse between her legs. She can feel the cool air on her wet skin, feel the tender, stretched feeling. She can feel his stare.
“It’s… it’s just a little,” she whispers, her medic’s assessment automatic, a shield. “A surface tear. It happens.”
“It shouldn’t have.” His voice is gravel. He shifts, one hand leaving her thigh to cup her cheek, forcing her to look at him. His thumb brushes the corner of her mouth, avoiding the split. “Not like that. Not because I lost my fucking head.”
The raw self-loathing in his tone is worse than anger. Sam’s green eyes finally focus on him. She sees the sweat on his temple, the tight line of his jaw, the fresh bandage on his side. She sees the soldier who carried her through a firefight, who held himself still inside her until she could breathe, who shattered the moment he thought she felt good.
Her hand comes up, shaky, and covers his where it rests against her face. Her fingers are cold. His are burning hot. “You stopped.”
“Aye. After the damage was done.”
“You asked.” The words are quiet, but they hang there. He’d asked for consent for the hard thrust. She’d given it. It was a tactical error for them both.
Soap’s eyes search hers. The frantic concern is cooling into something heavier, more resigned. “I asked a lass in pain to let me cause more. That’s not right.” He starts to pull his hand away. “This is done. Let me get the kit. Clean you up proper.”
His retreat is a physical blow. The warmth of him leaving her skin feels like a verdict. The cot creaks as he begins to move.
Sam’s hand darts out, fingers closing around his wrist. The grip is weak, but it stops him. He freezes, looking down at her hand on him, then back at her face.
Her cheeks are flushed. Her breath is still uneven. But her gaze holds his, and the flicker in it isn’t fear. It’s stubbornness. A refusal. “It’s not done.”
Soap stares at her. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t yield. “Sam. You’re bleeding.”
“I know what I am.” Her voice gains a sliver of its old, clipped precision. “And I know what hurts. The… the stopping hurts more.”
The admission leaves her lips and hangs between them, fragile and utterly honest. She’s not talking about the physical sting.
Soap’s expression changes. The hard line of his jaw softens, just a fraction. The intense assessment in his eyes deepens, reading the tension in her neck, the way her body is still arched slightly off the cot, seeking. He slowly, so slowly, lets her guide his hand back to her face. His thumb resumes its gentle stroke.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs, the brogue softening the command into a request.
She turns her face into his palm, her eyes closing. The trust in that small movement is seismic. “Don’t stop.”