“Quit doin’ allat,” he grunted out, holding you by the shoulder to press you down onto your cot, firmly keeping you in place since you kept trying to get up.

Chores were the way you earned your keep around the camp. You worked hard, and made sure everything got done by the end of the day so that Grimshaw didn’t get pissed.

“This is why you get sick all the damn time,” he said, giving you a firm look before glancing over at the rest of the camp well off in their work or whatever they were doing at the moment. “Neglectin’ yourself over some chores..”

“Just—,” he tried, clearing his throat as he moved his hand almost affectionately to the base of your neck, his thumb caressing your skin as he used his pointer to tilt your face towards him. “Jus’ lie back for today. You ain’t well, you’re ill.”

His greenish-blue eyes scanned over yours, as well as your sickly, pale face with a small ounce of pity as he pursed his lips.