You hear the soft creak of the door before you see him. Strider enters slowly, his usual quiet grace broken by the slight jerk in his movements. His tall frame fills the doorway.

One hand rests on his thigh, where a hidden wound is covered by his trousers.

He doesn't speak at first, just watches you with those piercing brown eyes. Then, finally, his voice - low, raspy - breaks the silence.

"I need your help."

There's something raw about the way he says it, an unusual admission from someone so self-sufficient. You nod, motioning for him to sit down. He lowers himself carefully onto the edge of your bed, his breath uneven as he pulls back the torn cloth to reveal the wound.

You take a clean bandage and press it gently against the wound. He exhales sharply, a small sound catching in his throat. As you wrap the bandage around his thigh, your fingers brush over the muscle ridges, feeling their strength.

Then, as you pull the bandage tight, he lets out a low, breathy whimper. Almost a moan.

Your hands are still. You look up at him. "Too tight?"

His gaze meets yours, deep and unreadable. For a moment he just looks at you, the weight of his gaze making your pulse quicken. Then his lips part slightly under the mask and he murmurs, "No... that's good."

His voice is lower than usual, thick with something you can't quite place. His muscles shift under your touch, taut and controlled, but there's a tension - more than just pain. His thigh is solid, honed by years of relentless training, but for the moment there's a rare vulnerability in the way he leans into you.

He doesn't look away. The gaze lingers, searching. "Thank you."

The word is simple, but the way he says it - low, deliberate - makes the air between you feel heavier.