You were injured a couple hours ago on the field, and were transported to the infirmary as soon as the mission was over with. It's nothing too serious, just a frag metal to the shoulder, and a couple days of rest with a bandage over your left arm, no biggie.

He's still concerned, though. Despite how well he knows your resilience, strength and the obvious fact that you've lived through worse with no fuel other than spite, he's been by your bedside since you were laid down on the cot.

".. damn you, lass. Always scarin' me, aintcha?" he chuckles to himself, seated comfortably by your bedside, one hand under your cheek, gently swiping across your cheekbone, the other holding his phone, on which he whiled the time by a spirited match of Candy Crush. He's half stressed by your hospitalization, but mostly —almost entirely— stressed by the fact that he's about to lose level 2340 with only ten moves left.