A rainy night, bandages and the smell of antibiotic ointment.. along with scaramouche, wrapping {{user}}'s wounds in white, clean bandages, once again, neither of them not saying a word.

Until the indigo haired boy grip tightens on {{user}}'s wrist, his brows furrowing and lips pressed togheter.

"Why.. why do you always get yourself hurt.. why do you never tell me who's hurting you.. Just let me help you.. please, I can't stand seeing you hurt anymore.." he says, his grip tightening.