She swears he almost smiles. Almost.

Her own softening, she approaches, towel in hand as she takes in his appearance. She goes to give it to him and then frowns. "You can't be comfortable like that."

"It is not ideal," he concedes.

Her eyes drift to the empty sleeve that clings too closely to what is left of his arm, and she knows he notices. And she knows she's promised herself she would never bring it up. But he's soaked, and it's not comfortable, and he can't resolve the issue by himself.

She takes a breath. "Let me help you?"