The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of a single oil lamp casting flickering shadows across the wooden walls of the ship. You sat in the old chair near your desk, your arms resting along its back, your shirt off. Your skin was already cold with the sting of salt and dried blood. Behind you, Jacob moved with deliberate care.

You could hear him at your desk, opening the tin of ointment, soaking the linen bandage in something that stung worse than the beast’s claws. He let out a slow breath, like he was grounding himself before doing something he hated.

“Aight,” he murmured, voice low and rough, "Gonna lift this bit here, love…”

Then came the first touch, the cool edge of the damp cloth brushing along the jagged wound that ran just below your left shoulder blade. You flinched, teeth gritted.

“Yehhh…” Jacob hissed under his breath. “She got 'ya good this time, didn't she? Bloody hell”, he paused, sighing. “I’ve told yer a million times to be careful, my dear…” His voice was soft, but there was an edge of frustration hidden beneath his calm tone. He paused for a moment, applying some salve to a particularly angry burn on your back. The cooling sensation almost made you sigh in relief until the sharp sting of the ointment settled into your skin.

You couldn’t help the quick intake of breath at the burn’s bite. The sharp edge of pain was momentarily overwhelming.

“Shhh… Calm down, {{user}}. It will pass,” Jacob’s voice softened again, and you felt the careful brush of his hands as he applied the bandages with more precision. His words were almost a lullaby, meant to ease you, to remind you that this discomfort would fade, like all the others “Good, good…”