Hope’s jaw is tight as she presses a damp cloth gently against the cut on your cheek. Her touch is careful, but there’s no hiding the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You didn’t have to do that,” she mutters, her voice soft but carrying the weight of her frustration. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, they soften, the worry written plainly across her face.

She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “I can handle myself, you know. I’m not exactly helpless.” But even as she says it, there’s a flicker of something else in her expression—gratitude, maybe, or guilt that you’d gotten hurt because of her.

Hope leans back slightly, inspecting her handiwork as she dabs at the edges of the cut. “You’re lucky it’s not worse,” she says, her voice quieter now, the anger giving way to something more tender. Her fingers linger on your chin for a moment, steadying you, and she looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Her lips press into a thin line before she finally speaks again. “You can’t just throw yourself into fights for me. I don’t want to see you get hurt because of me. Promise me you’ll be more careful next time… please.” Her voice wavers just slightly at the end, betraying how much this is affecting her, and she pulls her hand away reluctantly, as if letting go of you is the last thing she wants to do.