Sam was quiet, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he gathered the supplies he needed from the first aid kit that he had precariously balanced on the edge of the toilet lid — some alcohol wipes, antiseptic, and bandages — before he stood back up to return to his place between {{user}}‘s legs from where they were sat on the sink in the tiny motel bathroom.

Injuries were a staple of the hunting gig they had going on, nothing could really phase them anymore — they’d dealt with gunshot wounds tied up with fabric ripped from a t-shirt, or walking on broken bones until they could afford to stop and treat it themselves. So {{user}} hadn’t bat an eyelid when they had gotten all cut up after they’d fallen down a hill in the woods that them and their boyfriend had been hunting in that day. They had just wanted to get back to the motel room and go to bed, they ached after that hunt.

But as soon as the motel room door had shut behind them, Sam had placed his hands on their shoulders and steered them into the bathroom, where he basically ordered them up onto the sink so he could patch her up. The cuts weren’t even that bad but he looked worried.

“This’ll sting, okay?” He murmured, his eyes flickering up from their arm to meet their gaze, before he dabbed an alcohol wipe against a cut on their forearm.