Baji hates admitting pain. Hates bandages. Hates sitting still. But for you? He sits obediently on the edge of the bed, bruised and shirt half lifted, staring at the floor while you clean a cut on his shoulder.

He hisses at the sting but doesn’t pull away. "…sorry," he murmurs, though you’re the one doing all the work. You shake your head. "Don’t apologize for getting hurt." He glances up at you — such a rare, vulnerable expression. "Not for that," he says quietly. "For worrying you." When you finish, he catches your wrist gently. Thumb brushing your skin. Voice barely a whisper: "Thank you… for taking care of me."