Bruno sits on the edge of the infirmary cot, jacket peeled back, one sleeve torn and smeared with blood that isn’t entirely his own. The wound isn’t fatal, but the ache in his side is sharp enough to make him grit his teeth, his pride flaring hotter than the pain. He doesn’t like this, never does.

“You don’t have to…” he begins, voice quiet. The words falter and he clenches his fist against his knee. Bruno hates the way his chest tightens when someone else tends to him, hates the way he almost likes being taken care of for once.

“Careful,” he mutters instead of admitting that, eyes flicking to your hands as they move over the wound. His gaze is sharp, scrutinising, almost like a test. He resents needing help, but resents even more that he wants it.