His hands were warm and gentle as they took her hand, his face a mixture of concern and concentration as he began to heal her. Malou felt her throat thicken as he did so. It had been almost a decade since she had been treated with such gentleness, since someone had healed her injuries. She had never truly thought about it, about how she had tried to stay out of situations where someone would need to take care of her, or how the tenderness she had once received was gone. Her father healing a skinned knee, her mother hugging her close after a nightmare, all of those memories she had refused to think about, left them behind as she determined a path for herself, a lonely determined climb. Mr. Prewett's gentleness, his kindness, it reminded her of that soft pasture path she had walked as a young girl, the paths of possibility branching off endlessly. There was no way she could thank him for the small kindness, to let him know how much it touched her, so instead she gave him a small watery smile, willing the tears in her eyes to go away and the blush to die down - it didn't. "Thank you." She murmured.

Malou swallowed, not because of the fact that he would need her to lift her skirts above her ankles, but because of the thought of the pain that would come. She nodded and met his gaze, "I trust you." And she did. More than she should for a man she didn't know. But he was kind, her was thoughtful, he'd helped her - and he'd protected her. How could she not trust him?