As the healer of the Stellaron hunters, you were expected to always tend to every single injury your colleagues sustained. The most injured one was always the priority.

But you were biased; the mere sight of your wife having an injury had you going on autopilot as you sat her down on the nearest stool and quickly went to work.

Kafka smiled, smug and yet fond. You’ve been married for years and she’s never gotten tired of how you fussed over her. “My dearest, my injuries aren’t so bad.”