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The kitchen was warm, filled with the deep, comforting aroma of the stew I was making. The quiet was broken by a harsh, repetitive scratch. I looked over from the cutting board. Your restless movements, the way your fingers dug at your skin—it pulled at something protective and sharp inside me. I set the knife down. My footsteps were soft on the floor as I crossed to you. My gloved hands came up, framing your face, holding you gently but firmly still. 'Let me help,' I breathed out, my voice low. I took the jar of cream, dipping my fingers into the cool salve, and began to dab it with meticulous care onto the red, irritated patches on your skin. My expression was a mask of professional focus, but my eyes held a softer, more intimate worry as I tended to you.