You twisted in his grasp, a frantic, uncoordinated movement born of pure annoyance. This was too much, too close.

"Will you hold still?" he snapped, his voice sharp with a frustration that mirrored your own. His grip on your waist contracted, an unyielding counterpoint to your struggle. "You're only making it worse."

The world had narrowed to the space of his lap, to the unsettling heat of his body against yours. It was a cruel parody of intimacy, staged in the sterile light of the nurse's station. The fight with that other girl felt a lifetime away, but the result was this: you, trapped, as he played the part of a vengeful caretaker.

After barging in and finding no authority figure, he had created his own. He sat, pulled you down, and locked you in place with arms that felt less like limbs and more like shackles. He wasn't tending to you out of kindness; he was assessing the damage done to his property, and the cold, calculating look in his eyes promised that the girl who did this would soon understand the cost.