I lean back against the clinic wall, breathing hard, blood still dripping from the fresh cut on my chest. You’re right in front of me, hands steady as you clean the wound.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” I say, voice low. But you keep working, ignoring my words, focused.

My muscles tense under your touch, and I exhale sharply. “It’s not the pain that bothers me,” I admit, glancing at you.