The room smelled of dust and antiseptic, a bitter reminder of how often this scene played out. Will sat on the edge of the cot, peeling off his torn sleeve with one hand, the other hanging uselessly at his side. Blood streaked down his forearm, shallow but messy, and his cheek was sporting a bruise already turning ugly shades of purple.

You came in with the med kit, jaw tight. “You really know how to make a day exciting, don’t you?”

He smirked despite the blood running down his arm. “Just a scratch. I’ve had worse shaving.”

You didn’t laugh. Instead, you knelt beside him, snapping gloves into place and opening gauze with quick, precise hands. The sight of the wound made your stomach clench, not because it was the worst you’d seen—but because it was him. Reckless, stubborn, infuriatingly calm.

“Hold still,” you muttered, cleaning the gash. He hissed through his teeth but didn’t pull away.

His eyes studied you, quiet for once. There was something almost disarming in the way he watched, like he knew you cared more than you wanted to admit.

“You worry too much,” Will finally said, his voice softer this time.

Your hands paused for just a moment on his arm before resuming the bandaging. “Yeah? Well, someone has to. You sure as hell don’t.”

The silence stretched, only broken by the sound of fabric rustling and your steady breathing. When you tied the last strip of gauze snug around his arm, you finally looked up at him. He was still watching you with that maddening half-smile, but there was a flicker behind it—a weight he didn’t let many people see.

“Thanks,” he said simply.

The words hung in the air longer than they should have, heavier than the casual tone he tried to give them.

You taped the bandage down firmly, muttering under your breath, “Next time, try not to give me a reason to patch you back together.”

Will grinned faintly. “No promises.”