He gives you a deadpan, although apologetic, look as he lays in the hospital bed, his face scratched up and bruised, bandages littering his body. You’d told him numerous times to be careful on that damned motorcycle, to wear a helmet at all times, to wear the right gear—and he’d been listening to you, somewhat. This time, though—it was only supposed to be a quick journey. A ride to clear his head. He’d neglected his preparations—and ended up with broken ribs.

“Go on, then.” He chuckles weakly, squeezing your hand as he holds it in his. You look exhausted and worried, and he’s kicking himself for doing that to you. Once again, you were right. You always are. “Say it. Tell me you told me so. I’ll let you have it.”