“I can do this myself,” he says, his voice gruff as he winces through grit teeth — he had come back to camp from hunting about an hour ago. ‘Your hands are soft…’ he wants to say, but it comes out as a sigh. He can only sit and watch in silence as you tend to him.

He’s stubborn. The way he’d play his injuries off as mere scratches to avoid being in the same space as you, the way he’d avoid your eyes, trying hard to think of the pain rather than your soft skin brushing against his.