The smell of antiseptic wasn't just sharp; it was a clean, cold violence that stung the back of your throat. That, you told yourself, was why your eyes were watering.

You were perched on a scarred oak desk in the back of the deserted art room. Late afternoon sun slanted through the tall, grimy windows, casting long shadows that stretched like grasping fingers across the floorboards. Marcus sat opposite you, his crested blazer a crumpled heap of expensive wool on the floor. He watched you—not with the storm that usually brewed in his dark eyes, but with an unnerving stillness, his focus narrowed to your trembling hands.

You pressed a cotton ball, plump with rubbing alcohol, against the split in his knuckles. His hand flinched in yours, a sharp hiss slicing through the quiet.

"Sorry," you whispered, the word fragile.

"It's nothing," Marcus grunted, his voice a low rumble. He deliberately forced his hand back into your palm, surrendering its weight to you. His skin was fever-hot against yours, the knuckles a brutal landscape of red, the skin torn in jagged paths where it had met bone and teeth.

You bit your lip, focusing on the methodical task of cleaning and wrapping. You knew who he’d fought. More importantly, you knew why. Some jocks had made a thoughtless crack about your second-hand coat. It was the kind of casual cruelty you’d learned to build a fortress around, letting the words bounce off and fall away. Marcus didn’t build fortresses. He razed cities.

A single, wet sniffle escaped before you could swallow it.

Marcus went rigid. His free hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip that wasn't harsh, but absolute. Your work stopped.

"Hey," he said. The gravelly edge he wore like armor had vanished, leaving his voice raw and quiet. "Look at me."

You shook your head, your gaze locked on the crinkling plastic of a bandage wrapper. To look at him now felt like an admission of something you weren't ready to name.

"Look at me," he repeated, softer this time, a plea disguised as a command. He used the calloused pad of his thumb to trace the line of your jaw, tilting your chin until your tear-filled eyes had no choice but to meet his.