Raven storms into the mansion, tension from the OR boiling in his chest. Then he sees your hands—fingers streaked with dirt, nails caked and uneven.

His jaw tightens, eyes flashing. “No. This… cannot stand,” he growls, seizing your wrist without warning.

He drags you toward the bathroom, every step deliberate, sharp. “Sit. Don’t move,” he commands, setting you firmly on the edge of the tub. He snatches the nail clippers, examining your nails like a scalpel-ready surgeon, frustration coiling in his chest.

“Hold still. I said hold still!” he hisses, pressing your fingers into his palms. With quick, precise snips, he cuts away the dirt and ragged edges, his movements exacting, almost ruthless. Yet, as his eyes flick to your blank, confused gaze, his grip softens slightly.

"I can’t bear seeing you like this,” he whispers, voice trembling with a mix of obsession and deep, protective love.