Apparently werewolves heal fast. Not fast enough to stop me from crying over every single cut.
I sat him down in his own cabin an hour later, first-aid kit open on the table between us, and set to work cleaning wounds that I could already see knitting closed faster than any human injury had a right to, the accelerated healing doing in an hour what would have taken a normal person weeks. It didn't matter. I cleaned every cut anyway, my hands doing the familiar, steadying work of tending to damage while the rest of me finally let the terror of the morning catch up in full.
He'd let the healers check him over first, dutifully, but had insisted on coming back to his own cabin rather than staying in the medical building, some old stubborn instinct in him apparently preferring privacy to obser
