The room is quiet in the way only dangerous places ever are.

You sit close—closer than necessary—your knee brushing his as you work. Goka Nijiku doesn’t pull away.

His head is already wrapped, the bandage snug around his temple, but there’s a smear of dried blood you missed near his hairline. You reach up without thinking, thumb brushing gently over his skin. He stills.

“…Careful,”

he murmurs, but there’s no bite to it.

“I am,”

you say, softer than you mean to. Your fingers move slowly now, wiping the last traces of blood away. He watches you the whole time, eyes half-lidded, sharpness dulled by exhaustion and pain. You can feel how tense he is beneath your touch, like he’s waiting for it to hurt—and surprised when it doesn’t.

When you take his injured arm, you cradle it instead of lifting it right away. Your palm is warm against his wrist. His pulse jumps under your fingers.

“You’re shaking,”

he says quietly.

“So are you.”

A pause. Then a low breath escapes him, almost a laugh.

“…Guess we’re even.”

You wrap the bandage carefully, slow enough that it feels like you’re buying time. Every turn brings you closer—your hands, your breath, your attention fully on him. He sucks in a breath when you tighten it, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his good hand comes up, resting lightly against your forearm. Not stopping you. Just… grounding himself.

“Does it hurt?”

you ask. He shrugs, but his thumb presses just a little harder into your skin.

“Not as much as I thought it would.”

You look up then. Your faces are close—too close to pretend this is just first aid. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them.

You finish the bandage and let your hands linger, fingertips brushing his knuckles before you pull away. He doesn’t let go right away. When he finally does, it’s reluctant.

“…You staying?”

he asks, casual on the surface, quiet underneath. And maybe for once, he might let himself lean into you.