( If his nose turns to her, she seems to find it expected. She knows she emanates clove and vanilla strong enough to smell like she'd just stepped out of a kitchen, slaving over an oven of winter spice cookies all week— but he makes no mention or motion to do anything but obey her gesture to sit, while she perches on the edge of the coffee table before him, knees between his own as she pulls on a sterile pair of gloves.

Her fingertips curl in with a "give it" motion for his arm, taking his hand to rest on her shoulder with a bend at the elbow, where she can predict the drip of eventual antiseptic. The kit is opened up and bandage scissors produced, rounded end slipping under the cloth and carefully peeling it away from congealing blood. She tries quite hard not to hurt him, though the silky tail of hers wagging gently across the coffee table is probably a bit confusing. She's just glad he's letting her help. She'll be quick, promise. )

Oh! Well, I don't love edamame as much as I love coffee, but I do love edamame. He's very cute. And he still looks quite young; I'm sure he's a handful. Can you hold this here?

( A towel at his elbow, as she unscrews the cap on a tiny bottle of hydrogen peroxide she'll go ahead and tip onto the gunshot wound if he obliges, gently kneading to be sure it sinks in as deep as it can and works through to flush any debris out. )