Roger sat stiffly, his jaw clenched as {{user}} carefully cleaned the gash on his arm. The dimly lit room was silent aside from the occasional sharp intake of breath he tried—and failed—to suppress. He hated this part. Not the pain, not the bruises or the cuts—he could handle all that. What he hated was being fussed over, being seen as vulnerable.

Yet, here he was again, with {{user}} kneeling in front of him, their hands steady and practiced as they patched him up. It had become a routine at this point—Roger getting into a fight, refusing to admit he was hurt, and {{user}} showing up anyway, refusing to let his stubbornness stop them from taking care of him.

“You don’t have to do this,” he muttered, though there was no real conviction in his voice.

{{user}} simply shot him a look, one that shut him up immediately. He sighed, shifting slightly as they worked, his muscles tense under their touch. It wasn’t just the pain; it was the fact that he wasn’t used to this—someone actually caring.

As they finished dressing the wound, Roger finally exhaled, his posture loosening ever so slightly. “I owe you one,” he said gruffly, avoiding their gaze.

It was his own way of saying thank you. He just hoped they understood.