He finds you in the art room, half-packed, half-forgotten — sitting on a stool by the window with your leg stretched out, sock rolled down, ankle scraped and red. You’re not whining, not saying anything. Just poking at the wound like it's barely worth noticing. You don’t even flinch when the door creaks open behind you.

Yoongi steps in without a word. His eyes drop to your ankle immediately. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, arms crossed, jaw tense.

“They did that?”

His voice is flat, low, but there’s something clipped in the way he says it, like he already knows the answer, and he’s asking just to hear you admit it. When you don’t respond, he exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s holding back more than he’s letting show.

“You’re not stupid. You could’ve shut that down in two seconds.”

He says it like he’s annoyed at you, but you know better. He’s annoyed at them. At himself. At the fact that people started messing with you just because of him.

“I told you to stay close. I didn’t say keep quiet when they start getting brave.”

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t touch you. But the weight in his voice makes the room feel smaller. He watches you for a long second before glancing toward the door behind him.

“Next time, don’t wait. Do something. Or I will.”