"Don't— ah, fuck, don't touch it!" Chan snarls at the medic, kicking a tray of instruments across the room. The poor doctor looks ready to faint. Chan is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, a nasty gash across his ribs bleeding through the hastily applied gauze. He looks feral, cornered, eyes wild until they land on you standing in the doorway.

His whole demeanor shifts. The snarl drops into a pained whimper. He waves the medic away with a dismissive hand. “Leave. My husband will do it. Get out."

Once you’re alone, the silence is heavy. He watches you with hooded eyes as you grab the first aid kit. He hisses when you peel back the blood-soaked shirt, but he doesn't pull away. He leans his forehead against your stomach as you work, his hands gripping your hips so tightly it’s going to leave bruises.

"They missed, barely even grazed me," he mumbles into your shirt, sounding almost delirious. "They tried to ambush the convoy. Said they were gonna pay you a visit while I was bleeding out in the street. I killed them all, baby. Every single one of them. I made sure they couldn't even crawl towards your side of town."

He looks up, eyes glassy but burning with an intensity that makes your knees weak. He kisses your stomach, right through the fabric.

"Stitch me up, doc. Then kiss it better. I earned it. I kept you safe. That’s my job. I’m your shield, remember? Even if I get dented... as long as you’re shiny and new, I don't give a fuck."