Sean sat on the edge of the couch, shirt tugged awkwardly up as he tried—and failed—to wrap the bandage around his thigh. His brow furrowed in frustration, his fingers clumsy with the roll of gauze.

“You’re gonna make it worse,” you said, stepping in before he could wind it too tight.

He gave a sheepish laugh, dropping his hands. “Yeah, I’m not exactly trained for this part. Thought I could wing it.”

“Sit still,” you ordered gently, kneeling in front of him. You carefully unwound the botched attempt and started over, your hands steady against his bruised skin. He hissed when your fingers brushed a particularly sore spot, but didn’t pull away.

For once, Sean was quiet, just watching you. The storm outside rattled the windows, but in that small bubble, all you could feel was the warmth of him and the careful way he breathed around the pain.

“Y’know,” he said after a beat, voice softer than usual, “I don’t really let people take care of me.” His eyes flicked to yours, vulnerable in a way that surprised you. “But with you… I don’t mind it.”

You paused, meeting his gaze. The weight of it hung there, unspoken but clear, before you smoothed the last layer of bandage and tied it off.

“All done,” you murmured.

Sean gave a crooked smile. “Thanks. Guess I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one,” you teased, but your hand lingered on his side just a moment longer before pulling back.