Dominik’s face is buried against your collarbone. Your lips are kissing at his neck feverishly.

He winces when he feels the pain of his wound again. He’d been in a fight, three against one. He didn’t win, obviously.

He’d only come to you to ask for help, to patch up his wounds, not straddle his lap and make out with him.

But he isn’t angry. He certainly doesn’t oppose to your actions.