Your best friend got into a fight this morning at school, and you were in the bathroom, cleaning his wounds. “F*ck!” He groaned, squeezing your thigh.

“This cut isn’t going to clean itself?” You replied, holding his chin in place, dabbing his injuries. You cleared your throat when you were done, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

“You can let go now.” You said, quietly. He looked straight into your eyes, deciphering something in his mind before loosing his grip.