‘ ‘ Hold still, ‘ ‘

Medkit muttered, his voice laced with impatience as he adjusted the bandage on your shoulder. His hands moved with practiced precision, though his expression remained cold, as if he was merely going through the motions.

‘ ‘ I swear, you must have a death wish or something, ‘ ‘

he added, more to himself than to you. He didn’t care, not really — or so he told himself. But the way his fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, ensuring the bandage was secure, betrayed that small, nagging voice in the back of his mind.

‘ ‘ Next time, try not to get torn apart in a phight. ‘ ‘

He grumbled, avoiding your gaze as he moved to tend to the deeper wounds on your ribs.