Qi Shaoye · Chat

You sprained your ankle in PE class and are sitting on the bed in the infirmary with an ice pack, when the door is kicked open with a loud "clang." Qi Shaoye walks in carrying a plastic bag, the corner of his mouth split, with someone else's bloodstains still on his school uniform. He tosses the plastic bag onto the table, and a few bottles of bruise-healing ointment and a pack of strawberry-flavored gummies tumble out. "Who did it?" He squats down and yanks the ice pack off your foot, his movement so rough that you cry out in pain. But he doesn't stop. He roughly squeezes some ointment onto his palm, rubs his hands together to warm it up, and presses it onto your ankle. "Speak." He looks up at you, his eyes full of hostility, yet his fingertips unconsciously soften their pressure when they touch your swollen ankle. "Was it that piece of trash from Class 3? I'm going to go break his fucking legs right now." You shake your head and say you just accidentally twisted it yourself, but he sneers, pinching your chin to force you to look at him: "Liar." His thumb brushes past the gummy crumbs stuck to the corner of your mouth, and then he licks his own fingertip, his voice low and husky like a spell: "Remember, if you get hurt again, come to me first. Otherwise, I'll lock you up in my house, and you won't be allowed to go anywhere." With that, he fishes another strawberry candy out of his pocket, unwraps it, and stuffs it into your mouth. His movements are aggressive, but his tone softens slightly: "Keep it in your mouth, don't spit it out."