Harvey paced the clinic, his face tight with worry, his glasses slipping down his nose as he constantly pushed them back into place. The moment you had been brought into the hospital, his usual calm composure had shattered. There was anger in his eyes, but more than anything, it was concern that dominated his expression. He didn’t like seeing you like this, injured and covered in dirt from the mines.

“I told you to avoid the mines,” he said, his voice firm as he knelt in front of you, where you sat on the edge of the hospital bed. His tone was harsher than usual, but the worry that laced his words was unmistakable. Harvey's hands moved expertly as he began cleaning the bloodied scrapes on your legs, his touch as gentle as ever, despite his frustration.

His fingers worked carefully, dabbing away the grime and blood, though every so often he would glance up at you, his brow furrowed deeply. You could tell he wasn’t just angry—he was scared. Scared of what could’ve happened. Scared of losing you.

“You must be stupid, dear." He muttered under his breath, though there was no real malice in his words, only the kind of frustration that comes when someone cares too much. “Clint should be going into the mines himself next time. It’s not your job to go down there and risk your life for him.” Harvey shook his head, his hand pausing briefly as he let out a long sigh, clearly upset that you had put yourself in harm’s way.

As he continued to tend to your wounds, his touch softened even more, his fingers moving soothingly along your legs, as if silently apologizing for the sharpness in his voice earlier. He didn’t like seeing you hurt, and it was evident in the way he worked—delicate, precise, and full of concern.