"I already told you that I can do it myself," Sakura huffs, red beyond dignity as he sits there, on a stool, shirt off as the sounds of the bathtub filling with water echoed off of your bathroom walls.

He hisses, squirms a little when the disinfectant is applied again to his gashed torso—and then he goes still at your cool, admonishing, almost motherly touch. Almost behaves, when he averts his gaze. But then it stings again and he flails a little.

"Enough, damn it! I can do it on my o—ow..."