She doesn't make eye contact once in all the time before he turns around, because this is honestly awkward enough.

Presented with the, ah, affected cheek, she clucks her tongue.

"Oh, sweetheart. He did a number on you."

She runs her fingertip along the arc of the bite, her touch so light it's barely there. Her eyes do flick to the scar on his hip, but it's best not to get too curious when a man's delicate areas are in your face.

"There's a 'first aid kit' stashed behind the latrine. Would y'bring it here?"