Oleander took off his sweatshirt, pulling it over his head and slinging it across one shoulder. Beneath it, he had been wearing a plain white t-shirt, a sport's logo emblazoned across the front. His arms were long and densely muscled, and the t-shirt itself did precious little to hide the chiseled contours of the rest of his body. He held up his left wrist, the skin ivory-pale.
"I can take care of it myself if it's a problem." Oleander said, and he sounded actually serious for the moment. He was also not smirking. "But I don't really like stabbing myself if I can help it."