The gentle pressure of Ronan's fingers against my skin made me flinch. Not from pain—the cut was barely stinging anymore—but from the unexpected tenderness in his touch.
"Sorry," he murmured, his voice softer than I'd heard it in years. "I'm nearly done."
We sat in my bedroom, the late morning sun filtering through the curtains. Ronan had insisted on bringing me here rather than the pack's medical wing, claiming it would be more private. Now he knelt before me, carefully wrapping a bandage around my forearm.
"It's really not necessary," I said, trying to create some distance between us. "I'll be healed by tonight."
"Humor me," he replied, securing the bandage with a small clip. His fingers lingered on my wrist longer than needed. "There. All better."
