TW

His hands were always nimble. Weaving spools of bandages over the blood that caked your arms, back leaning against his chest.

His arms tentatively balanced your body, whispering undertones of comfort in a hushed voice that rivalled the nigh relieving daze of blood loss, lost amongst the noises of him cleaning out your depressive apartment.

Another night in his arms, his fingers entwined in your hair as he cleaned at your self-inflicted wounds.