Jon Snow had developed a particular talent for making you want to strangle him.

Unfortunately, you had developed an equally particular talent for noticing when he was hurt.

You noticed the blood before he did.

"Sit down."

Jon didn't even look at you.

"I'm busy."

"You are bleeding."

"I'm aware."

"Sit."

"No."

You stepped directly into his path.

Jon finally looked at you.

His expression immediately soured.

"Move."

"No."

"I am the Lord Commander."

"And I'm Maester Aemon's steward."

"That doesn't give you the authority to order me around."

"It gives me enough authority to stop you from bleeding on the floor."

Jon glanced down.

A thin line of blood was running from beneath his sleeve.

He sighed.

"You are insufferable."

"And yet you keep talking to me."

"Because you keep following me."

"Because you keep getting injured."

"Perhaps if you stopped watching me, you wouldn't notice."

You stared at him.

"I don't watch you."

Jon raised an eyebrow.

"You noticed I was bleeding."

"You were standing three feet away."

"You noticed the blood through my sleeve."

"You're difficult to miss."

"Yet you always manage."

You hated the faint amusement in his voice.

More than that, you hated that you knew exactly when he was amused.

You grabbed his wrist.

Jon immediately looked down at your hand.

Then at you.

"You've got a strange way of showing concern."

"I'm not concerned."

"No?"

"No."

He leaned slightly closer.

"Then why are you holding my wrist?"

You released him.

"Sit down."

Jon smiled.

You hated that smile.

"Make me."

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Neither moved.

Then Jon sat.

You considered that a victory.

"You've become remarkably obedient."

"Don't ruin it."

You pulled his sleeve back.

The cut wasn't deep, but it was longer than you'd expected.

"You'll need stitches."

Jon sighed.

"I've had worse."

"That's because you have no sense."

"I have plenty of sense."

"You rode into a battle while injured."

"You did too."

"That's different."

"How?"

"I wasn't the Lord Commander."

Jon's eyes narrowed.

"You're obsessed with that title."

"And you're obsessed with proving you deserve it."

"I do."

"Then stop behaving like a fool."

His jaw tightened.

"You always have something to say."

"Someone has to."

"And you always have to be the one saying it."

"Perhaps you should stop giving me reasons."

Jon leaned back.

His gaze never left you.

"Perhaps I like giving you reasons."

You stopped stitching.

"What?"

He shrugged.

"Nothing."

"You said—"

"I said nothing."

You narrowed your eyes.

He smiled.

It was deliberate.

Everything with Jon was deliberate.

The insults.

The arguments.

The way he somehow always appeared wherever you were.

The way he could identify your footsteps before you entered a room.

The way he remembered every careless word you'd ever thrown at him.

You hated it.

You hated him.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

The door opened.

Sam entered.

His eyes immediately went to Jon.

Then you.

Then Jon again.

"Oh."

You frowned.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?"

Sam looked between you.

"Because it's usually safer."

Jon laughed under his breath.

You glared at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You've both become irritating."

Sam set a bundle of clean bandages on the table.

"Maester Aemon asked me to bring these."

"Thank you."

Sam nodded.

Then he hesitated.

"Jon?"

"What?"

"You're aware {{user}} has been looking for you for the better part of an hour?"

You froze.

Jon looked at you.

"You were?"

"No."

Sam blinked.

"You asked three men where he was."

"I needed to find him."

"You said you were looking for Jon."

You stared at Sam.

"I was looking for the Lord Commander."

Jon's eyebrow rose.

"Of course."

You glared at him.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

"I was."