Qebhet was, in her own way, a healer, and faced with the immediacy of Much's hurt, all other thought dropped away. It was only a mild burn, and yes, it would heal well enough on its own, but that didn't mean he need be in pain. She smiled back at him. "Stay right there."
It was only after she'd slipped through the kitchen and up to the bathroom that it struck her what a curious thing it was – funny, almost – how suddenly they'd reversed positions, him grown tentative, her the one offering assurance. Strange. Perhaps accepting help didn't come so easily to him as offering it? He didn't strike her as the type to cling to silly masculine notions of having to stoically endure pain.
(Unless she had it entirely wrong and his hesitation was more to do with the other night—)
She found the jar she was after, neatly hand-labelled, and returned downstairs to find that Pepi had climbed down from his comfortable perch to investigate the visitor and was now gently butting his head against Much's legs.
"This is my own preparation," Qebhet said as she resumed her seat beside him. "Aloe for cooling, honey for healing and coconut oil for moisturising. You can take the jar with you, I'll make more. Hold out your hand."