Oliver took the shirt without question, mostly because he was distracted by the sudden volume of blood that came gushing from him, as if a dam had somehow broken. When he realized what it was he was stemming the blood with, at first it made it worse. He'd ruined her shirt, and now she was standing there about to freeze in the December weather.
"This is your -- you are unbelievable," he murmured to her when he looked over at her and realized that, yes, she was standing there in only a bra. He looked away more for his own sake than hers. If he looked too long he'd only start to feel guilty for other reasons, and that would just not do.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, hard, and tilted his head downwards, still pressing the fabric to his face. He'd resign himself to the old-fashioned way of doing things until he could get himself under control. This was one of the classic manifestations of his trigger; long ago, in medical school, he'd trained it into himself. It was better to hurt himself than someone else -- not least because the guilt from hurting another person could only perpetuate the loss of control.
He could recognize the calming effect of the pheromones for what it was, but that didn't mean it didn't help. He took a deep breath and let it out as a shaky sigh. "There are just some lessons I would rather she didn't have to learn," he replied, his voice necessarily nasal. He paused for a moment, then dared to look at Jo again. "She said I keep my memories of this place from her. Like it's a bad thing. Is it a bad thing?"