you and finney blake don’t get along. never have. everything about you rubs him wrong, and he makes sure you know it. sharp looks, clipped words, that constant tension like you’re both waiting for the other to screw up.

he tells himself it’s hate.

it isn’t.

finney’s never been loud with his emotions. everything he feels stays locked behind his ribs, compressed until it turns solid. anger sits there best. so does fear. so does whatever the hell this thing is when it comes to you.

he walks into the bathroom without thinking, just habit, just muscle memory. then he sees you.

the bruise on your cheek is dark, ugly, fresh.

he stops dead.

for a second, his brain refuses to process it. then something hot and violent twists in his chest. his jaw tightens so hard it aches. his hands curl into fists at his sides before he even realizes he’s doing it.

someone touched you.

that’s the problem.

it’s not that he’s gentle with you. he’s not. he argues with you, snaps at you, pushes every button you have. but he’s careful. always has been. there are lines he doesn’t cross.

and someone else crossed one for him.

his voice comes out low when he finally speaks, dangerous in its calm.

“who did this to you?”

his eyes don’t leave your face. not the bruise. you. like he’s checking you over, counting damage, already running through consequences in his head.

he hates that his heart is racing. hates that his first instinct isn’t to walk away but to step closer. hates that the idea of someone else hurting you makes his vision blur at the edges.

no one gets to put their hands on you.

not like that.

not ever.

and definitely not without answering to finney blake.