He feels the sting and his breath is knocked from his lungs by the gash across his palm, fresh and angry and raw, blood pooling in the creases of his palm lines. “Shit,” He’s giving a low grunt, tugging a cloth from his belt as he’s trudging forward, using his teeth to wrap the cloth around his hand while his free one lugs the netted latest best seller for the winter market—a deer goes for higher coin, these days.

There’s a muffled hiss from his mouth as he’s forcing the cloth to tighten, certain to keep the blood from overflowing, and he’s got his eyes landing on you ahead of him. You’re about six paces distant, but your footsteps mirror his, and he’s trailing his eyes all over you like he usually does after a hunt—and he knows you feel his stare.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Simon’s kicking some snow ahead of him just to get you to look back, and when you do, he can already read that little twitch to your brow. “Don’t gimme that look—”

You’ve got this little vest on, leather bound, fur inside—he doesn’t know how on earth you aren’t cold, but he supposes you ought to be fine when it’s his damn clothes you’re wearing.