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Henry worried you sometimes.
He liked it when you held his hand so tight your knuckles went white, sometimes with your fingernails digging into his flesh. When you kissed for the fourth time and accidentally nicked his tongue so badly it wouldn't stop bleeding for a while, you ran to get your staff for him, only to be held back by a hand and a grin different from usual.
He liked it when his back was all scratched up, his hair yanked, his arm accidentally bent almost out of its socket. Whenever you expressed your worry about any of these things, things that you knew were painful and felt profusely guilty for, he would shoot your apologies down to say he was alright and that you had no reason to say sorry.
It was weird, the way he'd do that, though. It was never with an air of pardon that he'd forgive you. It was―more often than not―something like a hunger.
One day his chest was slashed cleanly into two while he jumped out to block a Risen's cleave from hitting you. If you hadn't been there with your staff handy, you don't think he'd have made it.
As you treated him with shaky hands and vision tear-muddled, he pulled your head down to kiss your wet cheeks and left you with a smile smeared in blood where he did.
He loved it. It dizzied him and worried you.
You bit your lip, making up your mind to ask him about it when he was completely healed.