Chapter 3: Steam and Scars
The hot water was a brutal kind of mercy. It needled against her skin, stinging the fresh sutures with a persistent, biting heat that made her jaw ache from clenching. Kira stood under the spray, head bowed, hands braced against the cool, white tiles. She watched the water at her feet swirl pink, then clear, carrying the evidence of the alley down the drain.
Her body was a testament to survival, but in the stark, fluorescent light of Finn’s bathroom, it just looked used. The map of scars across her stomach and back stood out in sharp relief, pale against her skin. The new wound, a livid, puckered line sealed with black thread, was the latest entry. She scrubbed at the dried blood on her arms and neck with a rough washcloth, the motions efficient, military. The soap smelled sharply of antiseptic, a clinical scent that did little to mask the lingering ghost of iron.
Her mind, usually a locked box of protocols and contingencies, kept circling back to the boy in the other room. Finnian. His terrified green eyes, the way his ridiculous tail had puffed out like a startled squirrel’s. The feel of his throat under her fingers—so fragile. The complete, uncalculated panic in his voice when she’d asked if he’d ever killed someone.
Why?
The question was a loose thread in the tight weave of her understanding. People didn’t do this. They didn’t drag bleeding strangers into their homes, stitch them up with clumsy, earnest hands, and then get flustered about bathroom doors. It was a level of naivete that wasn't just foolish; it was dangerous. For both of them.
She turned her face into the spray, letting the water drown out everything but the throb in her side. He was a complication. A variable she hadn’t accounted for. And now she was stuck here, in this sterile little box, wearing another man’s clothes and relying on his kindness—a currency she didn't trust and didn't know how to spend.
The water began to run cold. She shut it off with a sharp twist, the sudden silence ringing in her ears. The air was heavy with steam. Wrapping a thin towel around her chest, she moved with deliberate care, each shift of her muscles a precise calculation to avoid pulling the stitches.
Finn’s clothes were folded on the closed toilet lid. The grey t-shirt was soft, worn thin from many washes. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something else, something green and faintly spicy—catnip, she realized. The sweat shorts were indeed too small, sitting low on her hips, the hem riding high on her thighs. She looked at her reflection in the misted mirror and almost snorted. She was a former military operative, stuffed into a kitten-soft shirt and what felt like boy’s gym shorts.
She wiped a clear streak on the glass with her palm. The face that stared back was pale, the shadows under her eyes like bruises. Her short, black hair was plastered to her skull. She looked exhausted. Human. It was an unacceptable liability.
It was an unacceptable liability. With a groan, Kira left the bathroom, padding silently back to the joined living room and kitchen. The steady sizzle from a pan and a low, absentminded hum filled the air.
Finn was preoccupied, his back turned to the hallway and preparing something on the stove, swaying his hips back and forth while humming to himself. The tip of his tail twitched in time with a rhythm only he could hear.
"Smells less like a chemical spill in here now," Kira said, her voice still rough.
The boy jumped and spun to face her in a panic, the wooden spoon in his hand clattering against the pot. His wide green eyes scanned her from head to toe, and the reaction was immediate. A deep blush spread from his cheeks to the tips of his human ears.
Then he got a good look at her in his clothes that were definitely too small. The soft grey cotton of the t-shirt was pulled taut by her larger frame, straining over well-defined muscles and breasts no longer held down by a sports bra. The shorts, normal sized for him, looked closer to short shorts when strained by her thick, powerful thighs, with him only now being able to see the sculpted legs formerly hidden by cargo pants.
"Uh," was all he managed, his gaze snapping back up to her face as if burned.
Finn, blushing and lightly frustrated by the startle, turned back to finish making lunch for them. "You shouldn't sneak up on people," he muttered, vigorously stirring the contents of the pot.
She watched the tense line of his shoulders for a moment before lowering herself carefully onto the same sofa she’d woken up on. The springs creaked under her weight. "It's what I do."
He didn't answer, just worked with a forced concentration. Soon, he set down two plates on the low coffee table. Each held a modest portion of simple pasta with red sauce. "It's not much," he said, avoiding eye contact.
They ate in a silence broken only by the ticking clock. Kira ate quickly, efficiently, the simple food fueling a system in desperate need of it. Finn picked at his, his ears twitching at every small sound she made.
Once he’d finished, he pushed his plate away and cleared his throat. "I want to check the stitches again," he said, his voice tentative. He awkwardly mentioned that as a med student he’s quite new, so he may not have done the best job.
Kira stared at him, a piece of pasta halfway to her mouth. She set the fork down slowly. "You're telling me this now?"
He flinched but held his ground. "I need to see if they're holding. Infection is the real threat now."
She leaned back against the cushions, her expression unreadable. After a long moment, she gave a single, curt nod. She didn't offer to move, just watched him as he retrieved his supplies and knelt on the floor beside the sofa.
His hands, which had been so steady when her life was actively bleeding out, now trembled slightly as he peeled back the tape. He was hyper-aware of her stillness, of the controlled rhythm of her breathing. The memory of her hand around his throat was a fresh brand in his mind.
The wound was inflamed, a angry red line against her skin, but it was closed. The black sutures, clumsy but functional, held the flesh together. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"They're okay," he murmured, his fingers gently probing the area around the cut. "A little hot, but that's expected. No pus."
Kira said nothing. Her head was tilted back, eyes on the ceiling, but he could feel the coiled tension in her abdomen under his touch. She was allowing this, tolerating it, the way one might tolerate a necessary, unpleasant medical procedure.
He worked quickly, applying a fresh layer of antiseptic ointment. The clinical smell filled the space between them. As he taped down a new bandage, his thumb accidentally brushed against the bare skin of her rib cage.
It was just a fleeting contact, but her stomach muscles contracted in a sharp, involuntary flinch. Finn froze, his hand hovering. Her eyes were now on him, narrowed and blazing with a warning so potent it felt like a physical blow.
"Done?" she asked, her voice dangerously low.
He snatched his hand back. "Done."
Finn put his supplies away, trying not to think about the warm, muscular stomach that he’d brushed a finger against for a brief moment. He additionally tried not to think about the rest of her clearly powerful body and her sizable breasts that, by the way they moved under his loaned shirt and stretched it, were clearly not held or supported by a bra. The image of her in the shower, water sluicing over those scars and muscles, flashed unbidden in his mind, making his ears grow hot.
He returned awkwardly to his seat again, picking at his cold food with occasional glances at Kira. She had settled back, one arm draped over her eyes, but he could tell by the tension in her jaw she wasn’t sleeping. The clock’s ticking measured out the thick silence between them.
When he finally found the courage to speak up again, his voice was too loud in the quiet room. “You should take the bed tonight,” he said. “The couch is terrible for your back, especially with the stitches.”
Kira didn’t move her arm. “I’m fine on the couch.”
“Really, it’s no trouble,” Finn pressed, his tail giving an anxious flick behind him. “I can sleep out here. You need proper rest to heal.”
She lowered her arm and turned her head, her blue eyes glinting in the low light. “I said I’m fine on the couch.” The words were flat, leaving no room for negotiation.
Finn relented, the stubborn set of her jaw making further argument pointless. He gathered the plates, his movements stiff. “Will you be okay, though? With the wound, I mean. If you need something in the night…”
Kira scoffed to herself, a dry, humorless sound. She looked away, back at the ceiling. “I’ve been through worse, kid.”
The dismissal was absolute. Finn stood there holding the dirty dishes, feeling young and foolish. He carried them to the kitchen sink, the clatter of porcelain the only sound as he rinsed them clean. He moved through the small apartment, turning off lights, trying to fabricate some semblance of a normal evening.
He laid out a fresh blanket and a pillow for her on the sofa, arranging them with excessive care. “There’s water here,” he said, placing a glass on the floor beside her.
Kira didn’t thank him. She just watched him, a silent, assessing shadow in the darkening room. Finally, he retreated to his bedroom, closing the door most of the way but leaving a crack open—just in case she called out.
He changed into soft pajama pants and sat on the edge of his own bed, listening. The apartment settled into a deeper quiet, broken only by the distant, rhythmic sound of Kira’s breathing. It was steady, controlled. He wondered if she was actually sleeping or just pretending.
He wondered about the things that were ‘worse’. He thought about the latticework of scars, the speed of her hands, the cold calculation in her eyes. The apartment felt different with her in it, charged with a latent energy that made the air feel thin. He finally lay down, staring at the slash of light from the living room that cut across his ceiling.
Sleep was a long time coming. His mind kept replaying the feel of her skin, the startling heat of it, and the way she’d flinched—not from pain, but from the contact itself. He was still staring at that stripe of light when he heard the first, muffled sound.
It was a gasp, choked and wet. Then a low, guttural moan that was strangled into silence.
Finn was on his feet before he’d even decided to move, his heart hammering. He padded to his door and peered through the gap. The living room was bathed in the blue-grey light of the streetlamp outside. Kira was on the sofa, but she wasn’t lying still.
She was thrashing. Her head twisted side to side on the pillow, her features contorted in a silent scream. One hand clawed at the blanket, the other was pressed hard against her bandaged side. A nightmare. It was a violent, physical struggle happening in absolute silence save for those ragged, trapped breaths.
He stood frozen, conflict rooting him to the spot. Waking a soldier from a nightmare seemed as wise as poking a live bear. But a pained grunt escaped her, her body arching in a way that had to be tearing at her stitches.
“Kira,” he whispered, then louder. “Kira!”
She didn't stir. The thrashing intensified, a full-body spasm that made the sofa frame creak in protest. Finn saw her teeth grit, a low snarl ripping from her throat that was nothing like the composed, wary woman he’d been feeding pasta to hours before.
This was something feral, trapped. He couldn't just watch.
He crossed the room in three quick strides, the floorboards cold under his feet. "Kira, wake up!" he urged, his voice tight with alarm. He reached out, his hands closing gently but firmly around the solid muscle of her shoulders through the soft fabric of his own t-shirt.
He gave her a shake.
Her eyes flew open, but they saw nothing in the dark room. They were wide, clouded with a phantom landscape of gunfire and sweat. The pain of a remembered bullet tore through her bicep; the sickening punch of a knife lodging in her gut seized her muscles. In her mind, she was still in some concrete hell, exhausted beyond reason but driving her body through another brutal drill, another confrontation.
Instinct bypassed thought entirely.
Her right fist snapped out in a blur. The knuckles connected with the soft hinge of Finn’s jaw with a wet, cracking sound.
Lights exploded behind his eyes. The world tilted violently, and he was on the floor, the impact driving the air from his lungs in a painful whoosh. He tasted blood, coppery and sharp, flooding his mouth from a bitten cheek.
He had a dizzying, fragmented view of the sofa. Kira uncoiled from it in a single, powerful motion. There was no hesitation, no groggy disorientation. It was a predator's launch, efficient and deadly.
She was on him before he could gasp. Her knees landed with precise, crushing weight on the bones of his wrists, pinning his arms to the floor. Her left hand shot out, fingers finding his throat in the dark and clamping down, cutting off his strangled cry. The pressure was immense, immediate.
With her free hand, she snatched the glass of water from the floor. She didn't throw it. She drove it down, hard, against the wooden floorboards beside his head.
It shattered with a spectacular, violent crash.
Shards skittered across the floor, water splashing his face. Her hand came back up, now holding a vicious, jagged spear of the glass. She pressed the razor edge against the soft skin just below his left eye. A hot trickle of blood, his own, mingled with the spilled water on his temple.
Her breath came in ragged, furious heaves. Her blue eyes, finally seeing the present, blazed with a confusion that was just as dangerous as the nightmare. They scanned his terrified face, his pinned body, not recognizing him.
"Who are you?" she growled, the words ground out from between clenched teeth. The shard bit deeper, a promise of blinding pain. "Who do you work for?"
Finn couldn't breathe. Her knees were grinding his wrists into the floor, her chokehold was a vise of iron. He tried to speak, but only a choked wheeze emerged. He managed a weak, frantic shake of his head, his green eyes wide and pleading.
He forced his diaphragm to contract, pushing a sliver of air past the constriction.
"F-Finn," he rasped, the word barely audible. He sucked in another agonizing breath. "It's Finn. You're... safe."
The pressure on his throat didn't lessen. Her wild eyes darted across his features—the soft, frightened lines, the blood trickling from his mouth, the tipped ears flattened against his head in utter submission. The glass shard trembled against his skin.
Recognition was a slow, cold drip, seeping through the adrenaline. The sterile scent of his apartment. The feel of his too-small clothes on her body. The clumsy black stitches pulling at her side.
A different kind of pain flashed in her eyes, sharp and immediate. Her gaze dropped from his face to her own hand, to the weaponized piece of the glass she’d offered him water in.
Her grip on his throat went slack.
She stared at the shard, her chest heaving. Then she flung it away from them both. It skittered across the floor, coming to rest against a textbook.
The weight left his wrists. She pushed herself off him and stumbled back until her shoulders hit the sofa, sliding down to sit hard on the floor a few feet away. She brought her hands up, staring at them as if they belonged to a stranger. They were shaking.
Finn rolled onto his side, coughing, one hand going to his throbbing throat, the other to his bleeding face. He stared at her, at the shattered glass glittering in the streetlight, at the water soaking into the floorboards between them.
The clock ticked, impossibly loud, measuring the silence of the ruined night.
The clock ticked, impossibly loud, measuring the silence of the ruined night.
Finn lay on his side, curled around the twin points of agony in his jaw and his throat. Each breath was a raw scrape. He pushed himself up slowly, one hand pressed to the wet, tender skin beneath his eye where the glass had bitten. His fingers came away smeared with diluted blood and water.
He stared at Kira, his green eyes wide over his aching jaw. The worry for her wound was still there, a stubborn, professional thread, but it was now utterly drowned in a cold, animal fright. She was a statue of self-loathing against the sofa, her chest barely moving.
Kira looked down at her own hands. Her right palm was laced with fresh, shallow cuts from gripping the shard, welling beads of red that traced the lines of her calluses. The sight seemed to confuse her. She turned her head toward Finn, her movements mechanical.
She saw the pure fear in his eyes, the way he held himself—a creature expecting another blow. The worry he’d shown earlier, that nervous, medicinal concern, was gone. This was the face of someone who finally understood what she was. She had almost blinded him. She had been a whisper, a stuttered syllable, from driving that glass into his brain.
Her gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the far wall, on nothing at all. Her mind was elsewhere, in a dozen other rooms where her instincts had been correct, where the threat had been real and her violence had been the answer. This soft, cluttered space with its catnip smell and textbooks rejected that answer completely.
“I didn’t… know it was you,” she whispered, the words hollow and toneless. A tremor started deep in her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She wasn’t talking to him anymore. The apologies were a muted chant, a horrified litany for the thing inside her that had turned on the only person who hadn’t. “I could have killed you. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
Finn watched her shut down. The fierce, guarded woman was gone, replaced by this hollowed-out stranger muttering into the dark. His own fear began to recede, not because the danger was gone, but because it had collapsed in on itself. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wincing at the bright spark of pain.
He pushed himself to his knees. The world tilted slightly. “Hey,” he croaked. His voice was ruined, a gravelly parody of itself.
She didn’t look at him. Her breath hitched, a sharp, ugly sound. She was staring at her bloody palm as if it were a foreign object, something that had betrayed her.
“Kira.” He said her name carefully, the way one might speak near a sleeping predator. He crawled a half-step closer, avoiding the glittering field of glass. “It’s okay. You were dreaming.”
“It’s not okay,” she snapped, the words suddenly sharp, directed at him. Her blue eyes flicked to his, blazing with a furious self-disgust. “Look at what I did to you. Look at your face.” Her voice broke again. “I am… I’m a loaded weapon in a room full of civilians. I shouldn’t be here.”
She moved to stand, her body stiff with more than pain. She needed to be gone, to vanish from this place she’d contaminated with her history.
“Stop,” Finn rasped, louder. The command hurt his throat. He shuffled forward on his knees, into her line of sight. “You’ll tear the stitches. Just… just sit. Please.”
The raw plea in his ruined voice halted her. She sank back, not to the sofa, but to the floor, drawing her knees up. She rested her forehead against them, hiding her face. Her short, dark hair formed a messy curtain. The cuts on her hand left tiny red smudges on the borrowed sweat shorts.
Finn slowly got to his feet. He walked unsteadily to the kitchen, filled a clean glass with water, and grabbed a dish towel. He came back and set them carefully on the floor near her, then retreated to begin picking up the larger pieces of shattered glass.
The quiet was filled with the soft clink of fragments being gathered. He worked methodically, his mind a blank static. He found the jagged spear she’d held, its edge darkened with a mix of their blood. He stared at it for a long moment before depositing it in the trash.
“You should let me see your hand,” he said finally, his back to her. The words were thick, mumbled around his swollen cheek.
“Forget my hand.” Her voice was muffled against her knees.
“Infection,” he insisted, the medic in him pushing through the shock. He turned. She hadn’t moved. He wet the dish towel and approached again, kneeling at a cautious distance. He held it out. “At least clean it.”
Slowly, she lifted her head. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. She looked at the offered cloth, then at his bruised jaw and the thin, red line under his eye. A fresh wave of shame tightened her features. She took the towel and pressed it to her palm, her grip white-knuckled.
“I need to check your face,” she said, not looking at him.
“It’s fine.”
“Let me see.” It wasn’t a request. It was penance.
Finn hesitated, then shifted to sit beside the sofa, leaning his head back against it. The streetlight fell across his face. Kira turned and knelt in front of him, movements stiff with purpose. She studied the damage her fist and the glass had wrought with a cold, clinical detachment that didn’t reach her eyes.
Her fingers, when they gently tilted his chin, were surprisingly cool. “Jaw’s probably not broken. You’ll have a hell of a bruise.” Her thumb brushed the cut below his eye. “This is superficial. It might scar.”
Her touch was precise, professional, but it was shaking. “I’m sorry,” she said again, the words barely audible. This time they were for him.
“You already said that,” he whispered.
“It doesn’t fix it.”
He finally met her gaze. The guarded wall was gone, shattered as completely as the glass. What he saw there was a vast, unfamiliar emptiness, and a fear that mirrored his own—but it was a fear of herself. “You were having a nightmare. You weren’t… you.”
“That is me,” she said, dropping her hand. “That’s exactly what I am. The thing that wakes up swinging. The thing you shouldn’t have brought inside.”
He was silent for a moment, absorbing that. The catnip-scented air felt too thin. “Why are you so sure you don’t deserve to be inside?” he asked quietly.
The question hung between them, too big for the ruined night. Kira looked away, her jaw working. She had no answer that wouldn’t sound like a confession. The weight of her silence was its own answer.
Finn let out a slow, pained breath and pushed himself up. “We should both try to sleep. For real this time.”
He walked to his bedroom door, then paused. He didn’t look back. “The couch is still yours. I’m… I’m leaving my door open.”
He disappeared into the dark of his room. Kira remained on the floor, the damp towel clutched in her bloody hand. She listened to the faint sounds of him settling onto his bed. The offer in his words was clear, a fragile thread of trust she had no right to.
She looked at the clean bandage on her side, at the careful blanket arrangement she’d destroyed. She looked at the space on the floor where he’d been pinned, where her violence had painted the scene. Slowly, she pulled herself onto the sofa, every muscle protesting.
She lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of his breathing from the other room. It was uneven, hitched with pain. Each ragged sound was an accusation. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was the terrified green of his, and the shimmering edge of the glass as it hovered, hungry, above them.