It was probably the worst he's ever looked.

The damn scarring wounds, the sprained legs and arm, and the dried dirt and blood, that maybe or may not be from him, was everywhere.

You watched him sit down on the motel bed, his face screwed up with an neverending wince, as he groaned loudly.

You didn't care if he protested, you picked up the damp rag, and the medical bag, so you could help him bandage up, after all, he risked his life to save you.