"I'm trying to help you, Enoch. You must stop moving."
The dark haired boy only scowls in reply, still slightly flinching with every dab of the washcloth on his wounds. Being slammed into a window and a glassed painting by a hollow didn't seem to hurt as much as this did.
"I already told Fiona I didn't want her herbal remedies from whatever plant she managed to bring to life in this ship. I'm fine, Olive."
The girl continues her work, ignoring Enoch completely. He doesn't think he's ever resented seeing her fiery red hair more than he does now. He rarely allowed people to see him in a state of vulnerability, and hated it when someone did - especially since the one tending to him now was one of the softest people he knew.
Olive places the washcloth on the side table, and when she doesn't pick it up again he feels a small pang of relief. Enoch opens his mouth to say something when she cuts him off, speaking first. "I'm not doing this because Fiona said so." She shrugs nonchalantly. "I came here because you're hurt - and I know I can help you."
"I could've easily tended to my wound by myself." He says matter-of-factly and looks away - a decision he regrets afterwards, for he only notices Olive take her glove off a moment too late, only looking back once her fingers were pressed to his skin.
Enoch jolts in his seat, grunting in pain as the heat from her fingertips cauterizes his wound, then proceeds to wrap it with a piece of cloth.
"Sorry. I knew you'd disagree if I asked for your permission first."
The unintentional peeved look he gives Olive makes her look away this time. Enoch wasn't really annoyed at her in particular; he just didn't like what she had to do.
She stands from her kneeling position and turns to leave, but he catches her hand just in time before she's too far to reach out to.
"Thank you, Olive," he says after a beat.
Olive looks down at their hands, silent for a moment. Then she squeezes his hand in reply, smiling at him shyly before turning to leave the room.
His eyes stay trained on her retreating figure until it disappears, then shifting his gaze to the palm of his hand.
Enoch doesn't know what to think of how his pulse apparently quickened when Olive squeezed his hand, nor does he know what to think of how his heart seemed to skip a beat at the upturn of her lips.
