Wolfram rarely allows weakness. Even now, recovering from a wound that nearly took his life, he fights against it. His body is still, rigid beneath the weight of the blankets, but his breathing is uneven, strained. The flickering candlelight casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

You'd felt the world crumble around you when you heard the gunfire, saw the blood. When Wolfram's guttural

He flinches, just slightly, as you lay the cold press over his forehead before his muscles relax, as if the touch reminds him that he's here, alive.

His amber eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, but when they land on you, some of the sharpness returns. “You shouldn’t be here,” he rasps, his voice hoarse from pain and disuse. "Playing nurse is beneath you."