You weren’t even sure what pissed you off more: the situation itself, or the fact that Hasgard was the one standing in your way — literally.

You wanted to go out. Why? Irrelevant. Dangerous? Possibly. Important? Maybe. The only thing standing between you and freedom?

A Saint built like a fortress.

He stood in front of the door with arms crossed, body completely covering the entire frame like some immovable mountain, and that stoic face of his barely acknowledged your growing fury. Technically, he wasn’t stopping you. He wasn’t touching you. He was just there— tall, immovable, annoying.

So you did what any sane person would do.

You headed for the window.

…Or you tried to, anyway.

Because just as your foot touched the sill, you got scooped— like a rebellious kitten caught mid-crime. Thrown over his shoulder, legs dangling, furious fists pounding against his back to absolutely no effect. It was like punching a statue made of steel and stubbornness.

“HASGARD!” you shouted, kicking like a child. “Put me down!”

You landed a solid hit on his shoulder and immediately regretted it — the man was either made of armor or boulders in disguise.

He didn’t flinch. Not once. Just held your wrists gently in one hand when you tried to squirm again, murmuring something infuriating like, “You’ll hurt yourself.”

You were hurting yourself because you were trying to hurt him.The irony wasn’t lost on you.

You swore you hated him. Or maybe just his height. Or maybe just that maddening calm when he knew he was right.

So there you dangled, smacking his back with your palm (which was now sore), as he carried you away from the window and deposited you like a potato bag of poor decisions back on the couch.

He didn’t say anything.

He just tucked a blanket over your lap and went back to blocking the door.