The clinic was unusually quiet after lunch—sunlight streaming in through the frosted windows, casting soft shadows across the room. You were standing in front of the bed, a bottle of alcohol and cotton in your hand, as your enemy, bruised and cut up, sat casually on the edge of the clinic bed. He had gotten into another fight—classic.

“I told you this might sting,” you muttered, dabbing the cotton with alcohol.

He didn’t flinch. In fact, he just stared at you, that usual unreadable expression sitting on his face. It irritated you.

You tried to ignore the weight of his gaze and leaned a little closer to clean the cut on his cheek, but the angle was off. You shifted to the side and said, “Move your face. I can’t reach it properly from here.”

“No.”

You raised an eyebrow, annoyed. “Seriously? If you want me to clean this up right, you have to—”

Suddenly, his hand slid around your waist, steady but firm. You froze as he effortlessly guided you to sit on his lap. The close proximity made your heart skip a beat.

“Now you can,” he said, eyes locked on yours—steady, unwavering.