John had recently been saved from a wolf attack, Getting back to camp with scars on most of his face.

Currently, He was sitting in a chair as you cleaned up the blood and dirt from the wounds as he messed with his sleeve.

“Am i gonna need stitches?” He asked through gritted teeth, Not enjoying the pain of cleaning the wounds, No one would enjoy it, though.

It stung. A lot, actually. He was sitting there fighting the urge to grab your wrist to stop you from pressing the cold rag to his face.