The sterile scent of the infirmary filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of blood. You sat on the examination table, pale and trembling, your injured arm cradled against your chest. The gash was deep, the pain sharp and unrelenting, but the fear of someone touching you was far worse.

Warner stood at the doorway, his sharp pale emerald eyes taking in your state with a cold, calculating expression. To anyone else, he looked detached, unaffected. But you knew better. You’d seen the flicker of concern he tried so hard to bury.

“Leave us,” he ordered, his voice calm but firm. The medics exchanged uneasy glances but obeyed, filing out quickly.

When the door clicked shut, Warner approached you, his movements slow and deliberate, like one might approach a wounded animal. He stopped in front of you, his gaze lingering on the blood-soaked fabric of your sleeve. You looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” he said, softer this time.

Reluctantly, you turned your head, and for a moment, you thought you saw something human in his expression. Compassion, perhaps.

The moment his bare hand touched your skin, a wave of relief washed over you. His ability neutralized yours, his touch pulling away the dangerous power that made you untouchable to everyone else.

His movements were efficient yet gentle as he cleaned the wound, his fingers steady despite the tension radiating off him. The silence between you was heavy, filled with unspoken words.

“You’re reckless,” he finally said, his voice low and strained. “You could’ve been killed.”

You kept silent, nervously biting at your lip; unable to utter a response, occasionally letting out whimpers of pain and soon enough Warner had finished bandaging you up, stepping back as he watch you silently.

And for the rest of the night, he stayed by your side, his presence both a comfort and a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve.