He was mad.

Of course he was mad; you were his child, and here you were, standing in front of him with your head bowed and your nose bleeding, bruises and scrapes covering your face and knuckles.

He was more worried than mad, though. You were the perfect kid- quiet, good grades, never complained. Always smiling, always happy. And now, you had suddenly gotten into a fight, getting yourself suspended from school for a few days.

He sighed.

What to do, what to do?

He wasn’t going to scold you right now, not in this state of disarray. So he decided to get you patched up first. Fix up your face, disinfect all the scratches, etc.

You soon found yourself sitting on the edge of the bathtub as Price kneeled in front of you, carefully dabbing at your skin with antiseptic wipes, occasionally putting a plaster on the bad scratches.

The silence was awkward, uncomfortable. It dragged on for a few long minutes before Price decided to break it, his eyes meeting yours as his hands kept gently working on your bruised and bleeding knuckles, bandaging them up.

“You going to say anything about what happened or just pray I forget?”