“I’m fine, {{user}}. This doesn’t even hurt.”

Draken sat on the edge of your bed, legs slightly apart, hands resting on his thighs like he was trying not to fidget. His voice was calm, almost bored, but you could see the faint wince in his eyes when the antiseptic touched his skin.

You didn’t say anything. You just kept working.

The cuts weren’t deep—just scrapes and bruises, a little dried blood near his temple. Nothing serious. Nothing life-threatening. But it didn’t matter. The moment you saw him walk through the door with that familiar look—tired, scuffed, and pretending it was nothing—your heart had dropped.

You pressed a plaster gently over the last wound, smoothing it down with your thumb.

Draken didn’t move.

He just watched you.

His gaze was steady, quiet, unreadable. Like he was trying to memorize the way your fingers moved, the way your brows furrowed when you were focused, the way you refused to speak when you were upset.

“You’re mad,” he said softly.

You shook your head. “I’m not mad.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time you come back with blood on your face, I wonder if one day you won’t.”

Draken looked down for a moment, jaw tight. Then he reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’ll always come back,” he said. “To you.”

You didn’t answer. You just leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.

And for a moment, the world was quiet.

Just you, him, and the promise stitched into every wound you healed.