Steb worked in silence, his rough hands moving carefully as he wrapped the bandage around your injured leg. Occasionally, his eyes flicked up to meet yours, but each time, he quickly looked away, focusing on the task at hand as if it were the only thing keeping his thoughts at bay.

Steb was never one for words—rarely spoke unless he had to. Even then, his sentences were short, blunt, and to the point. But now, words clawed at the back of his throat, fighting to get out. He wanted to scold you for being so reckless. He wanted to tell you that you’d be okay. And most of all, he wanted to tell you how much you meant to him, how the thought of losing you was something he couldn’t even begin to bear.

But none of it came.

He didn’t know how to say any of it, didn’t know how to string the words together without them sounding clumsy or hollow. He’d never been good with feelings—not with saying them, anyway. Steb had always let his actions do the talking, and now was no different.

A soft sigh escaped him as he pulled the bandage tighter, only to ease his grip immediately when he heard you wince. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice low, his eyes darting back up to yours briefly before returning to the bandage.

“You shouldn’t have jumped to push me out of the way,” he said after a pause, his tone steady but firm. “Better me than you, {{user}}.” It was all he could muster, and even as he said it, he wished he could say more—so much more. But for now, those words would have to do.