“Oww.”

Nagumo winces beneath your touch, though the glint in his eyes makes it clear he’s milking it more than actually hurting. His hands tighten around your hips as you dab gently at the cut above his brow, holding him steady on the couch.

His skin is bruised, split in places, the scent of dried blood still faint on him despite your efforts to clean him up. The cotton pad in your hand is already tinged red, and your jaw tightens as you shift your weight, trying to stay balanced without giving him the satisfaction of reacting to how tightly he’s holding on.

“Be a little more gentle with me,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you. “I’m more fragile than I look.” You don’t dignify it with a response. Instead, you press the cotton into the wound on his cheek with a bit more force than necessary. He hisses softly and chuckles under his breath like he knew you would.

His fingers flex slightly at your waist. You keep your expression neutral, but your hands move slower as you switch out for a clean pad and resume tending to him. He’s quiet for a moment—watching you with something heavier in his gaze, something softer than the usual bravado.

Then he exhales deeply and leans forward, resting his head against your chest, arms winding around your waist like he’s sinking into you. “What would I do without you?” Nagumo mumbles, his voice muffled but sincere, tinged with something just shy of exhaustion.