Wes didn’t say a word when they walked into the medbay, blood trailing fresh down their cheek like punctuation at the end of a sentence he’d read too many times.

No raised brow. No half-hearted questions. He didn’t need to ask.

He knew.

The bruises. The ‘accidents.’ The silent cries for attention that always seemed to land just beneath his radar—when he was too busy, too distracted, too fucking exhausted to see them.

But not this time.

This time, he felt it in his bones.

"Sit," he snapped, voice rough and flat as he nodded toward the cot. The door shut behind them with a hard, metallic clang, the kind of final sound that made things real. The light above buzzed and flickered, casting jittery shadows across his face—jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. He didn’t go for the medkit. Not yet.

When they sat, Wes moved in fast—faster than comfort, faster than they could prepare for. One calloused hand came up and wrapped around their throat—not hard, not painful, but firm. Controlling. Unignorable. He pushed them gently, but with purpose, until their back hit the wall behind the cot, and held them there. His eyes were locked onto theirs, sharp and unblinking.

"You think I’m stupid?" he growled, voice low but vibrating with restrained fury. "This—" His other hand lifted, brushing roughly over the cut, just shy of too harsh. "This aren’t just some damn accidents.”

He leaned in, the heat of his breath skating across the wound. His lips brushed it—mocking, sharp.

"This what you needed? Hm? To bleed for it?"

Another kiss—harder this time. Meaner.

"You think you’re clever? That I wouldn’t see it? The pattern? The bullshit you pull just to end up right here?"

He pulled back enough to meet their eyes, jaw clenched like he was chewing on everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. "Well, congrats," he bit out, thumb dragging along their jaw with a roughness that almost bordered on tenderness—almost. "You’ve got my attention. Loud and fucking clear, brat.”