"Don' wanna," Coral mumbled around a spoonful of yoghurt, already wary. All the attention at the hospital has fed her inner brat.
"Can I help?" Connor asked quickly, heart thudding. "With the dressing, I mean."
Fern looked at him with a long, measuring gaze, then nodded once. "All right."
She set the yoghurt tub out of Coral's reach. "Come on, you," she said gently. "We'll putFrozenon while we do it."
"Frozen!" Coral brightened immediately. "Elsa! Elsa! Elsa!"
"In the sitting room, then," Fern said. "Papa, can you flip the pancakes?"
"Aye," Harlan said with the efficiency of a dad who single-handedly managed the trials of bringing up a rambunctious daughter. "Go on. I'll shout if I need help."
They moved into the sitting room. The curtains were half-open, letting in a thin wash of winter light. Connor found the remote, queued upFrozenon the streaming menu, and sank onto the sofa with Coral perched on his lap, her back leaning into his chest.
Coral wriggled as the opening strains of music started, her eyes glued to the screen, humming along to a song she'd probably heard a hundred times.
"Okay, chicken," Fern said, kneeling in front of them with the dressing tray. "Remember, if it hurts, you tell me. No being brave just to impress us, all right?"
Coral stuck out her bottom lip but nodded.
Fern began to unwrap the bandage with careful fingers. Connor watched every turn, every slow reveal. He'd seen the wound during the evening dressing changes on the ward, but seeing it here, in their sitting room, somehow made it worse.
The burn was still painful, with patches that were irregular, moist and pink. His stomach twisted, and like every time he had seen it, he thought he would be sick. He hummed along automatically as Coral commented on Elsa's hair, anything to keep from losing his cool.
"That's good, love," Fern murmured, gently dabbing with a saline-soaked sponge. "You're doing so well."
"Can I... do that?" Connor asked, his voice low. "The next bit?"
Fern looked up at him, and something in her face softened by a fraction.
"Okay," she said, and passed him the gauze. "Like this." She demonstrated the motion—light and precise—then let him take over.
His palms felt clumsy and too big. But with Fern guiding him—her fingers brushing his, her voice a quiet murmur of instruction—they managed it together. Clean, dry, a dab of cream. Coral hissed once, but didn't cry.
"All right, the worst bit's done, such a good girl," Fern said. "Last bit."
They re-wrapped the hand, Fern holding the end of the bandage while he carefully wound it around Coral's wrist. When he tied the final bow, Coral flexed her fingers experimentally.
"Is that alright?" he asked.
She considered. "Want sticker," she demanded, eyes already back on the telly. She waited until Fern stuck a golden star on the bandage.
He couldn't help himself. He carefully wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in, breathing in the warm, milky scent of her cheek.
"I am so sorry, baby," he whispered against the side of her head. His throat burned. "It's all my fault. I am so, so sorry."
She twisted around in his arms to look at him, frowning. Then, with unexpected gravity, she raised her good hand and wiped clumsily at the wetness at the corner of his eye. "No cry, Da," she told him. "No cry."
He let out a shaky laugh that wasn't really a laugh at all and pressed his forehead to hers for a moment. "Okay," he said hoarsely. "Okay, poppet. No cry."
Behind them, Fern cleared her throat softly. "I need to finish in the kitchen. Let me know if you want any of the kitchen stuff," she said. "Can you sit with her 'til the song's done?"
"Yeah," he said, still clutching Coral. "Yeah. Of course."
By the time "Let It Go" had finished its dramatic crescendo and Elsa was building her glittering ice palace, Fern's favourite plates were wrapped and nestled in the box, and Harlan was talking about vans and storage units and logistics.
Connor eventually prised Coral off his lap with a promise of French toast and more cartoons, and carried her back into the kitchen.
