The basin is filled with water turned pink from blood, the rag in your hand already stained deep red. The room smells of sweat, iron, and candle smoke, flickering light casting long shadows against the wooden walls. Bill sits shirtless in the chair before you, his skin slick with sweat, his body a map of old scars and fresh wounds. The gash across his ribs is the worst of it… deep, angry, still seeping blood as he watches you work.

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, wincing slightly as you press the cloth to his wound. “Ain’t never seen you fuss so much over a little scratch.”

“A little scratch?” you shoot back, eyes flashing as you wring the rag out, water dripping between your fingers. “You’re bleeding like a slaughtered hog, Bill.”

He grins at that, sharp and lazy, though his breathing is tight. You can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flex where they rest on his thigh. He won’t admit pain, not even to you. But you know him too well, you see it in the way his body leans slightly toward you, as if seeking warmth, comfort, something beyond the bite of a blade.

You press a clean cloth to his side, and his hand shoots out, gripping your wrist in a strong, rough, possessive way. His thumb moves against your pulse, slow, deliberate. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, raspier.

“You always this tender, or am I just special?”

You exhale, shaking your head, trying not to let the way he’s looking at you distract you from your work. But it’s hard. Even bleeding, bruised, half-wrecked, he holds himself like a king of the underworld in a very fearless, indomitable way.