You grabbed a towel and started wiping the blood off Justin’s knuckles, but he barely seemed to notice—too busy rambling about how the guy had it coming, how he should’ve hit him harder, how he wasn’t even mad anymore.

His voice was rushed, almost excited, and every few seconds, his hand would brush against your arm, or he’d lean in a little too close, his breath warm against your cheek.

“You should’ve seen his face, babe,”

he laughed, his fingers absently tracing circles on your wrist.

“Bet he won’t try that again.”

You rolled your eyes but kept working, dabbing at a cut on his lip while he grinned at you like this was the best part of his night.

“You talk too much,”

You muttered, and he just smirked, pressing his forehead against yours.

“And you take too good care of me.”