Soft whispers of students filled the air as you rummaged through your bag, retrieving the white box. The scent of antiseptic lingered as you gently took Drazion’s hand, fingers brushing against his bruised knuckles. He didn’t pull away—he never did.

“You really don’t take care of yourself, do you?” you sighed, dabbing a cotton pad against the fresh cut. “At this rate, I should bring a whole pharmacy instead of just a first aid kit.”

Drazion remained silent, gaze fixed—not on the wound, but on you. More precisely, on the way your lips moved as you spoke, soft and pink, parting slightly with each exasperated word. His eyes darkened, though his expression stayed unreadable.

Oblivious to his stare, you kept rambling. “Do you even think before throwing punches? What if—”

Warm fingers tilted your chin upward, cutting off your words. Before you could react, Drazion leaned in, lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was anything but hesitant. It was firm, demanding—filled with unspoken intensity that made your breath hitch.

The first aid kit slipped from your grasp, forgotten. Your heart pounded as his grip tightened, pulling you closer. The faint taste of copper lingered where your lips met, but you barely noticed—drowning in the heat of him, the way he claimed you effortlessly.

His hands, rough yet steady, rested on your waist, fingers pressing just enough to make your skin tingle. The world blurred into insignificance—just the press of his lips, the heat of his body, the scent of leather and something undeniably Drazion.

A soft whimper escaped your lips when he pulled back, leaving you dizzy. His forehead rested against yours, breaths mingling in the small space between you.

“Maybe I do think before throwing punches.” he murmured, voice low. “Just not about the fights.”

Your pulse stuttered, cheeks burning as his thumb traced your lower lip.

“Next time.” he mused, smirking. “If you don’t want me fighting, find a better way to keep my attention.”