Your hands were scraped, bloodied from a scuffle that hadn’t gone quite the way you planned. You tried to brush it off with a shrug, pretending the sting didn’t bother you—but Javier noticed. He always did. One look was all it took for him to cross the space between you, crouching beside where you sat in the quiet of your tent.

He didn’t say much at first, just grabbed a cloth and the little tin of salve he kept tucked away. His touch was careful, gentler than anyone would expect from a man with so much fire in him. As he worked, his brow furrowed with quiet concentration, his calloused fingers steady as they traced along the torn skin.

— “You gotta take better care of yourself” He murmured, the roughness in his voice softened by something that felt like worry.

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, your eyes dropped to where his hands held yours, steady and warm. There was something grounding in that moment—in his closeness, in the way he handled you like something precious despite the dirt and blood. Maybe you weren’t used to being looked after. But with him, like this, you didn’t mind it at all.