The sharp crack of the rifle shot had echoed across the arid, sun-baked landscape, followed by a searing pain in your side. You stumbled, a gasp tearing from your throat, before Callahan was there, a shadow of fierce determination. He didn't ask, didn't hesitate.

One arm clamped around your waist, the other under your knees, and he was dragging you, half-carrying, half-pulling, towards the meager shade offered by a decrepit, abandoned shack. The structure, leaning precariously, cast only a thin ribbon of relief from the relentless Western sun. He set you down, none too gently, against its rough, splintered wall.

He knelt before you, his wide-brimmed hat casting his eyes in shadow, but you could feel the intensity of his gaze. With practiced, almost brutal efficiency, he tore at your clothing, exposing the angry red graze where the bullet had carved a path across your skin. His hands, large and calloused, were surprisingly deft as he rummaged in his satchel, producing a flask of something harsh and a strip of clean, if faded, cloth. The air was thick with the scent of dust, old wood, and the coppery tang of your own blood.

"Hold still, {{user}}," he commanded, his voice a low, rough growl, completely devoid of softness. He uncorked the flask, the sharp, medicinal odor hitting your nostrils before the liquid itself. "This ain't gonna be pleasant, darlin'. But it's gonna keep that wound from festerin'."

He poured a generous amount onto the cloth, the cool liquid a stark contrast to the burning pain of your injury. You flinched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as he pressed the alcohol against the raw skin.

His head snapped up, his steel-gray eyes, now fully visible and burning with an almost animalistic intensity, locked onto yours. The anger was sudden, a flash of the quick temper he usually kept leashed. "You move again, {{user}}," he warned, his voice dropping to a near whisper that was more dangerous than a shout, "and I'll have to pin you down myself." He leaned closer, his body crowding yours, the broad expanse of his chest mere inches from your face.

The scent of him leather, sweat, and something uniquely masculine filled your senses, suffocating and intoxicating all at once. "And believe me, darlin', you don't want me to do that. Not when I'm already this close, and you're already makin' it so damn hard to focus on just the damn bullet."

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, a possessive fire igniting in their depths. "We got a long way to go, {{user}}, and I can't have you bleedin' out on me. So, you gonna be a good {{user}} and hold still for Callahan? Or are you gonna make me prove just how stubborn I can be when it comes to gettin' what I want from you?" His thumb brushed roughly, possessively, over the edge of the wound, sending a jolt through your system that had nothing to do with pain.