you're halfway through your skincare routine — face dewy, hair in a bun, wearing your giant sleep shirt and fuzzy socks — when the door slams open.

“quiet—some of us are—” you freeze mid-sentence.

nate's standing there. bruised. bloody. hoodie torn. breathing like he just outran death.

“…what the hell happened to you?”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “practice got rough.”

“what practice?” you snap. “the hunger games?”

he stumbles, and out of instinct, you reach out, steadying him.

“sit.”

“i’m fine—”

“you’re bleeding, you idiot.”

he flops onto your bed like he owns it. “for someone who ‘hates’ me, you patch me up an awful lot.”

“because I don’t want a dead body in my dorm,” you grumble, grabbing the first aid kit. “bad for the vibe.”

“sure. not because you care or anything.”

you shoot him a look. “take your shirt off.”

he pauses. smirks. “shouldn’t we at least go on a date first?”

“nate."

“fine, fine.” he peels it off, wincing as he moves — but that stupid grin stays.

“you’re cute when you’re bossy,” he adds.

you ignore him, kneeling beside him as you clean the gash on his side.

he watches you. quietly. too quietly.

“what?” you ask, not looking up.

“nothing,” he says, smile tugging at his lips. “just didn’t think someone who ‘hates’ me would be this gentle.”

you roll your eyes. “lower your ego.”you mutter — but your hands are careful, your eyes softer than you’d like.