"…Kaya," he breathed, soft. "You're… okay. Good."
"Yeah, I'm fine," she said. "Don't worry about me. Talk to me. Head spinning? Nausea? Anything weird?"
He blinked, thinking. "It… hurts," he admitted, quiet and honest. "Feels heavy. But… it's not… turning. And I can hear you. That's… enough, right?"
The way he said it—gently, like he was trying to reassure 'her'—made her chest pinch, but it didn't scare her. It was just so very him.
"Let me check," Kaya said.
She brushed his wet hair away from the wound. The cut along his scalp was messy but not gaping open anymore. Fresh water was streaking the blood thin, not washing it out in sheets. She pressed lightly near it with careful fingers, watching his face.
"That?" she asked.
He winced. "Mm. Hurts. But… just there." His tone stayed calm, almost apologetic, like he was sorry to make her work.
