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“Like what?” I smile.

“You know.”

“I really don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

I let him stew for another second before taking pity.

“You told me what you needed instead of sitting there trying to draw with the wrong hand and getting frustrated.”

“I could’ve tried.”

“That’s my point, Kamden.” I move closer to the headboard, mattress dipping under my weight. “You don’t get extra credit for making something harder than it needs to be.”

His expression goes strangely still at that.

Another sentence that shouldn’t be profound. Another sentence someone really needed to say to him years ago.

I reach for his left wrist. “Let me see.”

He gives it to me without resistance—arm extended flat across my palm like an offering—fingers relaxed rather than curled inward as they were this morning when I asked for them. The skin over his pulse is warm against mine. His thumb rests alongside his forefinger instead of twitching toward a fist or away from my grip entirely.

Trust?

Not exactly.

But maybe the beginning of familiarity.

I turn his wrist carefully. The angry welt from the zip tie is still visible, pink rather than red now, the swelling almost entirely gone. I press gently around the worst section.

“Pain?”

“No.”

I press another spot, closer to the thumb.

He shakes his head.

“Here?” I press near the base of his palm where the bone sits close to the surface.

“A little.”

“How little?”

“Like a one or two.”

“On a ten-point scale?”

“Uh-huh.”

I rub my thumb lightly over the skin, feeling for heat, for any knot of tissue beneath it. His pulse taps against my fingertip. Steady. Faster than mine, but steady.

“Any numbness?”

“No.”

“Tingling?”