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The cut ran along her left side, just under the ribs—clean, shallow, but long enough to have soaked a dark line through her shirt.
Shaw’s apartment door clicked shut behind them.
The place was exactly as always: sparse, functional, a single lamp throwing hard shadows across the bare walls and the narrow bed.
Shaw shrugged out of her jacket with a controlled wince and tossed it over the back of a chair.
Root was already moving. “Sit.”
“It’s fine.”
“Sit down, Sameen.” Root’s voice was soft, but it carried that particular edge that meant she wasn’t asking.
Shaw would never admit what that tone did to her.
Shaw dropped onto the edge of the mattress, jaw tight, watching Root disappear into the bathroom and return with the small first-aid kit Shaw kept under the sink.
Root knelt between her knees.
She pushed Shaw’s shirt up carefully, fingers cool against warm skin.
The cut was red and still seeping a little.
Root’s mouth tightened.
“You didn’t have to take it for me.”
“You were busy not dying,” Shaw muttered. “Seemed tactical.”
They both knew it wasn't just tactical.
But Root just left for now.
She cleaned the wound with steady, almost reverent attention—antiseptic, gauze, the faint sting making Shaw’s breath hitch once before she locked it down.
Root’s hands were precise, but every brush of her knuckles against Shaw’s ribs lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
The air between them thickened.
When the last piece of tape was smoothed into place, Root didn’t pull away.
Her palm stayed flat against Shaw’s side, thumb stroking once along the edge of the bandage. Shaw’s pulse jumped under the skin.
Root looked up.
Those dark eyes were half-lidded, intent. “You’re warm.”
“You’re still between my legs.”
Shaw hadn't meant to say that out loud.
For once Root didn't have a joke.
No sarcastic comment.
Root rose slowly, never breaking contact, until she was fully standing between Shaw’s spread thighs.
She leaned in, close enough that Shaw could smell the faint metallic trace of blood and Root’s shampoo.
One hand slid up Shaw’s throat, thumb resting lightly over her pulse.
“I hate when you get hurt for me,” Root murmured. “I hate knowing you’d do it again.”
Shaw’s hand closed around Root’s wrist.
Not pushing away.
Holding.
“Then stop talking about it and do something.”
Root kissed her.
It started controlled—Root testing, tasting—but Shaw answered with a low sound and pulled her closer.
Mouths opened.
Teeth scraped.
Root’s free hand found the hem of Shaw’s shirt and slowly dragged it higher, careful of the bandage, until Shaw lifted her arms and let it be stripped away.
Root’s fingers mapped the planes of her stomach, the undersides of her breasts, circling but not yet touching where Shaw clearly wanted.
Shaw broke the kiss long enough to yank Root’s shirt over her head.
The rest of their clothes followed in a rough, efficient scatter.
Neither paid attention to where they landed.
Root ended up straddling Shaw’s lap, knees bracketing her hips, bare skin sliding against bare skin.
The bandage pulled faintly when Shaw’s hand settled at Root’s waist and squeezed.
Shaw easily ignored it.
Root rolled her hips once, slow and deliberate.
Shaw’s breath left her in a sharp exhale.
She could feel how wet Root already was, the slick heat of her dragging along the length of Shaw’s tight.
Root did it again, watching Shaw’s face the entire time, lips parted.
“Tell me if it hurts,” Root whispered.
“It doesn’t.”
Root reached between them, wrapped her fingers around Shaw, and guided her into place.
She sank down in one long, controlled slide until she was fully settled.
Both of them went still for a second—Shaw’s hands locked on Root’s hips hard enough to bruise, Root’s head tipped back, throat working.
Then Root started to move.
She rode Shaw with deliberate, rolling thrusts, taking her deep every time.
Root adjusted slightly giving her space to slowly slide two fingers inside of Shaw.
The angle made Shaw’s fingers curl against that perfect spot inside her; Root’s quiet, broken sounds filled the quiet apartment.
Shaw thrust up to meet her, careful of the cut but unable to stay still.
The wet, rhythmic sound of their bodies filled the space between them.
Root leaned forward, bracing a hand on the mattress beside Shaw’s shoulder, the other curled inside of Shaw.
Their mouths found each other again—open, hungry, messy.
Shaw’s thumb slipped between them and found Root’s clit, rubbing tight circles in time with every downward grind.
Root’s thighs trembled.
She clenched hard around Shaw and came with a low, shuddering moan against her mouth, body tightening in waves.
Shaw didn’t last much longer.
The sight of Root falling apart on top of her, the hot, pulsing grip, the way Root kept moving through it like she couldn’t stop—Shaw buried her face against Root’s neck and came hard, hips jerking, filling her in long pulses while Root murmured soft, filthy encouragement against her ear.
They stayed like that for a while, breathing hard, Root still perched in Shaw’s lap, forehead resting against Shaw’s.
Root’s fingers drifted down to the edge of the bandage, checking, gentle.
“Still okay?”
Shaw’s hand slid up Root’s back and settled between her shoulder blades. “Yeah.”
Root smiled against her mouth—small, private—and kissed her again, slower this time. Neither of them made any move to get up.