I sit on the couch while Angel walks over and sets the first-aid kit on the table. His expression hasn't eased at all—worry still shadows his eyes. He dips the cotton into antiseptic, his movements slow, careful, almost reverent.
The moment the cotton touches my skin, I flinch.
"Young master… just bear with it a little," he says softly.
I look at him.
It feels strangely comforting—this simple act of care, this quiet concern focused entirely on me. He applies the ointment gently, his touch so light it barely grazes my skin. Oddly enough, in this moment, the punch almost feels worth it. At least now, someone is treating me like I matter.
I smile faintly. "Thank you so much, Angel."
His eyes remain fixed on my lips. "Young master, please don't move your mouth."
I nod obediently.
He closes the first-aid kit, fingers tightening around it. His gaze stays lowered. After a pause, he speaks again, hesitating.
"Young master…"
I look at him. "Hmm?"
