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She tips his face up toward her, her back to the lamp, all the planes of her picked out in gold and silver and shadow. A hiss, through her teeth, and she very delicately traces her thumbs along the edge of his nose. “You really did a number on yourself,” she says, tilting his head back and forth to catch the lamplight as much as she can. Jiang Cheng’s mind has gone completely blank, even the pain fading away as if happening from a great distance, or to someone else. He doesn’t think anyone has ever touched him like this. Her hands are gentle, her fingertips callused, and no one has ever touched him like this.
“I think you’re okay,” she says, taking his chin between her thumb and forefinger and looking him over thoughtfully. She tugs a cloth out of her robes with the other hand and dabs it under his nose, wiping up the blood with fabric still warm from her body heat. “If you were normal I’d tell you to put cool compresses on it, but since you’re magic and shit you’ll be fine by morning, right?”
Jiang Cheng nods, carefully, because he doesn’t want to dislodge her hand for some reason.