Din stood silently on the other end of the Razor Crest, his helmet tilted ever so slightly, eyes fixed on you from behind the visor. He leaned against the wall, absentmindedly toying with the buckle of his belt as if trying to distract himself from the obvious—the wound on your side that you were stubbornly ignoring.

You winced, shifting your weight, and he noticed. Of course he did. You could practically feel the way his frustration simmered beneath that beskar armor. Finally, with a sharp breath, he pushed off the wall, grabbed a nearby medpac, and stalked toward you.

Without waiting for permission, he guided you down onto a crate and crouched in front of you.

“If you’re not going to clean that wound, I will,” he grunted, already peeling open the kit with practiced hands.