Joel had noticed the shoddy bandage on your forearm earlier. He’d kept quiet, though, figuring as long as you weren’t infected, it wasn’t his place to press. But it stuck in the back of his mind, gnawing at him.

When he walked into the house and saw you sitting on the couch, the bandage peeled away to reveal the raw wound beneath, his jaw tightened. The wound was inflamed, neglected, and seeing it made his stomach churn.

Joel let out a low grunt of annoyance as he grabbed a clean cloth on his way over. Without asking, he dropped heavily onto the couch beside you. “Let me help,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You opened your mouth, maybe to protest, but the look he gave you stopped you short. His expression wasn’t angry—it was focused, serious, almost soft.

He took your wrist carefully, his fingers warm and steady against your skin, and pulled your arm closer to him. Despite his rough exterior, his touch was surprisingly gentle, like he was afraid of hurting you any more than you already were.

The room was quiet save for the sound of his deliberate movements. He cleaned the wound with practiced care, his brows furrowed in concentration. It reminded you of how he fixed other things—his tools, his gear, always with that same determination.

“This’ll sting,” he muttered as he pressed the cloth against the wound, his voice quieter now, almost apologetic.

You winced, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t stop. Joel wasn’t one for coddling, but his care spoke volumes.

“You gotta take better care of yourself,” he murmured, wrapping the wound with fresh bandages. “’Cause if you won’t, I will.”