The silence in the room after the mission was heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of clothing. You moved to put away your stuff, deliberately turning your left side away from Megumi. The deep gash on your arm throbbed in time with your heartbeat, but you’d insisted, through gritted teeth, that you were fine.

A firm hand closed around your wrist, stopping you.

You didn't have to look to know it was Megumi. His grip was unyielding, but not harsh. You turned to find his brows furrowed, his sharp eyes narrowed with an intensity that was more frustration than anger.

“You’re injured. Don’t lie,” he stated, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that brooked no argument.

You opened your mouth to offer another weak protest, but the look in his eyes silenced you. This wasn't a debate.

“Stop pretending you’re okay,” he continued, his tone leaving no room for defiance. He guided you to sit on the edge of a nearby table, his movements efficient and controlled. “I’m not asking... I’m telling you.”

He was annoyed, that much was clear. The line of his jaw was tight, a muscle feathering slightly. Yet, as he reached for the first aid kit, his actions betrayed his stern words. His fingers, when they pushed up your sleeve to better expose the wound, were surprisingly gentle. He worked with a quiet focus, cleaning the cut with a methodical precision that spoke of countless times he’d done this for himself.

The antiseptic stung, and you couldn't suppress a sharp hiss. His eyes flickered up to yours for a fraction of a second, a silent acknowledgment, before returning to his task. The air filled with the scent of iodine and the faint, clean smell that was uniquely him.

“Being reckless doesn’t make you strong. It just makes you a liability,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, as he began to wrap a clean bandage around your arm. His touch was sure, the pressure firm but careful. “I save people who deserve saving. That includes you, even from your own stubbornness.”