"Do you resent me?" The words slip past his lips before he can second guess them, his sharp gaze following your movements with articulate intent.

It is the third time this week that he had returned home to you, severely wounded and barely breathing.

Yet, he finds enough strength each time to tug you by the arm, closing his limbs around you in a tight embrace.

He never takes the bright crimson into account, not caring when the thick liquid accidentally stains your clothes. Not when the first thing on his mind, is you.

To feel you, to touch you, to embrace you.

There's a small flinch from him when you dab the cold cloth against the busted seam of his forehead, though he makes no noise of protest or complaint.

Not when he's completely focused on you and your movements, watching you as if he was a predator eyeing his next meal. Slowly, one of his hands begin to move, his fingers twitching before they come in contact with your side, curling the individual digits around the fabric of your kimono.

"Have you.. have you eaten properly? Without me being here?" He asks, his question a bit awkward.

The sweet, domestic life is not something he is accustomed to, but it's something he refuses to ever let go of. He would adjust, he tells himself. He wants this, and more than anything, he wants you.