𝐒𝐇𝐄 , 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄.

“you’re going to have a bruise.”

“it won’t heal if you keep picking at it.”

“you were out for a few days. how are you feeling?”

“absolutely not. you’ll pop your stitches.” 

“take it easy. you’re in rough shape.”

“those pain meds knocked you out.”

“where’d you get that bloody nose?”

“make a fist for me.” 

“where does it hurt?” 

“ow, ow, ow.”

“that’s going to need stitches.”

“shit, that hurts.”

“is it broken?”

“keep ice on it.”

“ouch!” 

“i can’t even look. is it bad? wait, don’t tell me.” 

“you shouldn’t be walking around right now.”

“how am i supposed to sleep with all these bandages?”

“stay in bed and let me look after you.” 

“there, you’re all patched up.” 

“let me help you to your room.”

“how many fingers am i holding up?”

“take your time. slow, slow. you’re doing great.”

“you could have a concussion. ”

“i’m okay. you can stop hovering.”

“you’re lucky. you could have gotten seriously hurt.”