You’d been stubborn for as long as you could remember, always the type to say, “I can do it myself,” even when you were clearly in over your head. This time was no different. You sat on the edge of a dusty cot, gritting your teeth as you tried to wrap a bandage around your bleeding leg. Your hands were shaking from the pain, but you refused to ask for help.

Simon stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an expression that was a mix of annoyance and concern. His eyes, half-hidden behind the balaclava, never left you. He’d offered to help—twice—but you shot him down both times.

“Stop staring at me,” you muttered, your voice tight with frustration as you fumbled with the bandage.

Simon didn’t move. “You’re makin’ a mess of it,” he said flatly, not bothering to sugarcoat his words.

You shot him a glare, stubbornly continuing to wrap your leg. “I’ve got it.”

He sighed, and before you could protest, he was in front of you, kneeling down. In one swift motion, he grabbed the bandage from your hands. “I know you can do it,” he said, his tone low but firm, “but you don’t have to.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Simon’s steady hands were already working, efficiently securing the bandage with a level of care that surprised you. He wasn’t rough, but there was no room for resistance either. His touch was firm, commanding, and before you knew it, the bandage was neatly wrapped around your leg.

“You’ve gotta stop bein’ so damn stubborn,” he murmured, his voice closer now. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a second, the tension between you seemed to shift, the air thick with something unspoken.

“I’m not stubborn,” you grumbled, though your tone lacked its usual bite.

Simon snorted softly, his hands still resting on your leg. “You’re somethin’, alright.”