He wouldn’t blame her if she refused the towel, or shied away from him, or otherwise exhibited some kind of reflexive fear response that she tries to poorly hide. He certainly doesn’t deserve anything from her, and it’s not hard to see the way she doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m okay.”

Jack has always been very, very good at compartmentalization—nobody ever wanted to see him as anything less than unshakeable, or perhaps he just convinced himself that’s what he needed to be. His tone is sincere, familiar, like he’s trying to dig up the man he used to be for her sake. Jack isn’t sure how convincing it is, but he knows that she’ll appreciate the effort.

Hope she does, anyway. He’s not so forward as to try and comfort with more than words, not when she might not be ready for it, so for lack of something to do with his hands, he leans forward and rests them on his knees.

“Are you hurt?”