The door hissed shut behind you, sealing off the hallway noise and leaving only the low hum of Castle systems and Keith’s uneven breathing.

He was sitting on the edge of the medbay cot, jacket discarded on the floor, undershirt soaked with blood around his ribs. A nasty gash stretched just below his left side, angry and red. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it needed tending — now.

“Take that off,” you said, grabbing the first-aid kit.

Keith didn’t move. “It’s not that bad.”

You turned slowly and raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to tell Allura you let a wound fester because of your pride?”

That got him moving. He peeled the shirt off with a hiss of pain, muscles tense beneath skin already beginning to bruise. You caught the faint tremble in his hands, though he tried to hide it.

You sat beside him on the cot and opened the kit, pulling out antiseptic, gauze, and the small healing stim device. “This’ll sting.”

“I can handle it.”

You dipped the cloth in the antiseptic anyway and pressed it to the wound — and, of course, he flinched.

“Told you,” you said with a small, smug smile.

Keith gave you a look. “You enjoy this.”

“I enjoy keeping you alive. Don’t move.”

He stayed still after that, jaw clenched tight as you cleaned the cut. You worked silently, focused, your fingers steady despite how close you were — how aware you were of the way his breath hitched when your hand brushed just above his hip.

You tried not to think about it.

“Why do you always throw yourself in front of people like that?” you asked quietly, not looking up.

Keith shrugged. “Someone has to.”