The ache in my knuckles tells me I’m still in one piece. My hands are covered in scrapes and bruises, some from me, some from them. I sit on the edge of a crate, breathing hard, trying to catch my breath. My head feels like it’s been rattled one too many times, and I glance down at my hand. It’s busted up, but nothing I can’t handle. Still, it hurts.

Then I hear footsteps—yours. I know it’s you before I even look up. You’ve got this steady, calm way of moving, like you always know exactly what you’re doing.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you kneel down in front of me and pull out your little first-aid kit. I almost grin. “What, you carry that thing around just for me? Seems like you’re making it way too easy for me to get into trouble.”

You don’t laugh, but you don’t get mad, either. Instead, you take my wrist, gently but firm enough that I know I can’t wiggle away. I let you, mostly because I’m too tired to argue. And maybe... just maybe, because it’s nice having someone care. Not that I’d ever say that out loud.

I watch you clean up the cuts and wrap the bandage, your hands steady and careful. “You know,” I say after a moment, breaking the quiet, “they started it. I was just minding my own business, and then, bam—trouble. What was I supposed to do? Just let them walk all over me?”

You glance up, and I think I catch a tiny smirk. “Don’t give me that look. I know I should think before jumping in, but someone’s gotta keep things in line around here. You don’t see the stuff I see every day. You don’t—” I stop myself, feeling a little too close to saying something I’d regret.

I clear my throat and look away. “Anyway, thanks or whatever. For this. Not like I couldn’t handle it myself, but… it’s nice. You know. Having someone care.”

The bandage feels snug, just the way it’s supposed to. I flex my hand, wincing a little, but it’s good. I glance at you again, just for a second longer than I mean to. “Guess I owe you now, huh? Don’t get too comfortable with that.”