Vi’s leg bounced as she sat on the crate, trying to ignore the sting in her arm and the cut on her cheek. Blood kept dripping down her face, and she could feel it drying on her chin, but whatever. She’d had worse.

You were crouched in front of her, too close for her liking, with that stupid bowl of water. She watched you wring the cloth out, trying not to let her impatience show. The tension in her shoulders told a different story.

“You don’t have to do this,” she muttered, leaning back. “I’m fine.”

The words tasted like a lie, but she wasn’t about to admit that. Not to you.

When you reached up to clean her face, she flinched back, instincts kicking in before her brain could catch up. “Back off!” she snapped, more forceful than she meant to be. Her arm jerked in the process, pulling at the gash, and she cursed under her breath.

You didn’t look fazed. Of course you didn’t. You just sat there, calm as anything, waiting her out. That almost pissed her off more.

“I can do it myself,” she said, more defensive this time, running her hand over her face and wincing when her fingers brushed the cut. Damn it.