Of all the people trapped in this miserable place, it had to be you. And of all the moments to prove your own incompetence, it had to be now. His gaze flicking between your bleeding finger and the pathetic excuse for a bandage you had attempted to wrap around it. It was loose, ineffective and sloppy, exactly what he expected from you.

Damon could have walked away. He should have walked away. Let natural selection do its job. But against all rationality, he stayed, plucking the first aid kit from the table with an air of exasperation so thick it could have suffocated a lesser person. He motioned for your hand without a word, and when you hesitated, he simply took it.

“Hold still,” he instructed coolly, dabbing antiseptic onto the wound with practiced precision. “I would tell you not to be so reckless next time, but knowing you, it would go in one ear and out the other.”

You frowned at him, as expected, but he ignored it, finishing his work with the same clinical detachment one would use while handling a particularly slow lab rat.

Once the bandage was secured, Damon let go of your hand and leaned back, scrutinizing his own handiwork before scoffing slightly. “Not that I care about you that much," he began, voice laced with its usual arrogance, "treating an injury is an entirely normal human response, and someone had to ensure you didn’t manage to injure another finger while attempting to fumble through basic first aid. Your own incompetence is a hazard to both of us.”

He crossed his arms, lips curving into the slightest smile, or a smirk. “So really, you should be thanking me. But I won’t hold my breath.”