stuffandnosense

[stuffandnosense]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅, 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏

synopsis. hughie's specialty is getting hurt. yours is patching him up with soft hands and sweet words.

pairing. the boys ﹢ hughie campbell x reader ﹢ fluff

wordcount. 494

warnings. injuries (mentios of bruises, busted lip, stitched brow), mild swearing, tender patch-up (non-graphic)

You find Hughie slouched on your couch, a frozen bag of peas pressed to the side of his face and a sheepish expression in his swollen eyes. His bottom lip is split, a thin line of dried blood darkening the skin around it. There's a gash above his right brow, freshly stitched but clumsily done, like someone rushed it. Probably him.

"Jesus, Hughie," you whisper, the door still swinging shut behind you. "You look like you lost a fight with a brick wall."

He cracks a wry smile that turns into a wince. "Technically, it was a guy thrown through a brick wall, but... close enough."

You drop your bag and immediately cross to him, hands reaching out like instinct. "Did you at least win?"

"Define 'win.'"

You sigh and settle onto the edge of the couch, already reaching for the small first-aid kit from under the coffee table. You've done this before. Too many times. But it's never stopped feeling personal.

"Hold still," you murmur, fingers gentle as you nudge the bag of peas away and start inspecting the damage. He's warm under your touch, skin flushed and humming with pain.

He leans into it anyway.

You dab at the blood on his lip with a cotton pad, slow and careful. He flinches slightly but doesn’t pull away.

"You always take the hits so personally," he says quietly.

"That's because they're on your face, Hugh."

He chuckles and winces again, then mutters, "You make it sound like I do this on purpose."

You look at him, really look at him—the bruises blooming along his jaw, the exhaustion hiding just beneath his attempt at humor. The way his eyes keep flicking to your face like he’s checking to make sure you’re not angry. Or worse—disappointed.

"You’re allowed to not be okay, y’know," you murmur. "You don’t have to laugh it off every time."

He exhales slowly, eyes fluttering shut as you clean the cut above his brow. "I know. I just... I didn’t want to worry you."

"Too late for that," you whisper, and lean forward to press a kiss just beside the bruise under his eye.

He opens his eyes again, and for a moment, he’s completely still. Then he smiles, soft and small, the kind that belongs to mornings and movie nights and a version of life that doesn’t involve blood and broken ribs.

"Thanks for taking care of me," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Always." You dab on a bit of antibiotic cream and sit back to survey your work. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

"You think I’m cute? Even like this?"

You grin. "Especially like this."

He laughs, and this time it doesn’t hurt as much.

You curl up beside him on the couch, pulling his hand into yours. The peas sit forgotten on the floor. His injuries still throb. The world’s still a mess outside your door.

But right now, he’s here. You’re here.

And that’s enough.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ

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