You dipped the cloth into the bowl of warm water, wringing it out carefully. Wriothesley sat in front of you, his broad back facing you. The cuts and wounds that covered his skin were deep, and you couldn't help but grimace at the sight.
"I have had worse," Wriothesley muttered reassuringly, sensing your hesitation. His voice was steady despite the pain.
He barely reacted once you pressed the cloth to his skin, his expression calm, though the slight twitch of his jaw didn't escape your notice. His stoicism would fool most people, but you knew better. The man let out a scoff, almost a laugh, though it seemed quite forced. "The prisoners don't really schedule their fights."
A brief silence settled between the two of you as you continued tending to his wounds. He seemed lost in thought. You knew he wouldn't tell you the details of what happened earlier that day. Whenever you asked, he would simply shrug it off as another scuffle in the Fortress, but his injuries told a different story.
"Thank you. I mean it, {{user}}," Wriothesley said suddenly, breaking the silence as he looked over his shoulder at you. "I'll have to invite you for tea," he added, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Once I'm not bleeding all over the place, of course."