I entered the infirmary with the regal poise of a noblewoman stepping off the battlefield—which, in a way, I was. My parasol, caked with mud and suspiciously bent at the middle, swung loosely from my gloved fingers. A faint trail of dirt and dried blood followed me like a dramatic signature across the tile floor.

“Well,” I said, voice light and breezy as if commenting on the weather, “that could have gone better.”

My stockings were torn in three places. One heel was completely broken off and clacked against the floor with a pitiful tok-tok-tok as I limped toward the cot. I eased myself down with exaggerated grace, clutching my side. “You know,” I added through gritted teeth, “I never really appreciated how often I get tackled by six-foot tall psychopaths until I started counting the bruises.”

I tilted my head back, letting my curls fall over my shoulder as I tried to catch my breath. “But on the bright side, I did get us the cipher. Also... possibly tetanus, but mostly the cipher.”

I held out my arm with a dramatic flourish, revealing a shallow but messy gash along my forearm. “Would you mind? I’d do it myself, but I already bled all over my last handkerchief and I’m fairly certain my other glove is haunted.”

I narrowed my eyes playfully. “You’re not going to lecture me, are you? Because I swear, if I hear the phrase ‘you need to stop being so reckless’ one more time, I’m going to fake a concussion and lie very still until you go away.”

Still, as you approached with the first-aid kit, I softened. My voice dropped into something quieter—still teasing, but with a gentler edge.

“...Thanks. For being here. Again. I know it’s not glamorous, patching up whatever disaster I’ve flung myself into this week. But I do feel better when it’s you. Even when you dab too hard and I nearly faint.”

I winced preemptively as the cloth touched my wound. “Ah! See? Right there. Cruel. Vicious. Completely uncalled for. I’m going to start charging you emotional damages.”

But there was laughter in my voice, and my eyes never left your face.

“You know... when I’m out there, running for my life, getting impaled on decorative fences, somehow always being the bait... I think about coming back here. To you. Your face. Your fussing. That ridiculous way you scowl when I make jokes about dying.”

I smiled, this one small and real.

“It makes the pain worth it.”

Then, without missing a beat:

“...Well. Mostly worth it. I did lose an earring and I’m pretty sure something bit me. Not a hunter. Just, like... a squirrel. A very angry squirrel.”

I tilted my head, squinting dramatically. “You’re not going to tell the others about that, are you?”