Kaelen leaned against the doorway, breath sharp between his teeth. Blood slid slow and dark from the gash in his shoulder, soaking the torn fabric. He hadn’t planned to come here—had sworn to himself he wouldn’t—but when the blade cut deep, your name was the only one his mind gave him.

{{user}} turned when you sensed him, eyes steady, unreadable. You didn’t flinch, didn’t scold, just met his gaze with that same quiet calm you're always carried, like a still lake under a storming sky.

Without a word, you moved across the room, gathering a cloth, thread, the faint flicker of magic at your fingertips. Kaelen watched her—precise, measured, cool in all the ways he was not. He wondered, just for a breath, if she resented this. If seeing him like this—bleeding, reckless, alone—stirred anything under that surface.

He eased himself into the chair when she gestured, the leather creaking beneath his weight. Her fingers brushed his skin as she peeled back the ruined shirt, cool and sure. His muscles tensed out of habit, not pain. She smelled faintly of herbs and smoke.

Kaelen let his eyes drift half-shut, jaw clenched as the warmth of your healing seeped into the wound. Idiot, he thought. Should’ve been sharper. But somewhere deep, darker, he wondered if part of him wanted this moment—wanted your hands on him, even now.

You worked in silence, the soft crackle of magic filling the space between them. Only when the wound closed did you speak, voice low and even.

“You should be more careful.”

Kaelen huffed out a dry laugh, eyes flicking open to yours. “Yeah,” he murmured, a faint, crooked grin pulling at his lips, “but then I wouldn’t get to see you.”