The silence of the Student Council office was thick, heavy with the scent of expensive wood and the lingering aroma of the salmon Joel had just been forced to consume. Outside that soundproofed door, the entire school was likely buzzing with the news of the "thief," but inside, the world had shrunk down to the space between Joel's knees and the edge of James Thorn's desk.
Joel sat stiffly, his hands clutching the used silk handkerchief. Every time he tried to shift his weight to alleviate the throbbing in his hip, a sharp, jagged pain lanced through his side. He tried to hide it—he was an expert at hiding—but a particularly sharp twitch made him let out a tiny, involuntary hiss of breath, his body jerking slightly to the right.
James, who had been watching him with the predatory focus of an eagle, didn't miss it. His amber eyes narrowed, tracing the line of Joel's slumped posture.
"You're still wincing," James remarked, his voice devoid of sympathy. It was a cold observation, like a scientist noting a flaw in a specimen. "You're so incredibly weak, Joel. A small fall on soft grass and you're acting as if you've been shattered. How do you expect to survive a single day in the real world if you can't even handle a tumble?"
Joel's face burned. He looked down at the mahogany floor, his voice coming out as a tiny, fragile thread. "I... I'm sorry, President. I didn't mean to be... a bother."
"You are a bother," James snapped and leaned closer, his shadow stretching over Joel's lap. "The conviction I have in mind for you—the price of your 'theft'—requires a fit body. It's bad for my image. Have you even treated it? Or were you too busy crying to look after yourself?"
Joel swallowed hard. "I... I haven't had time to go to the nurse," he whispered shyly. "But... someone... I don't know who... they put something in my desk."
He reached into his pocket with trembling fingers and pulled out the small, clinical tube of arnica ointment. He held it out in his palm, not looking up, his dark hair falling forward to hide his burning cheeks. "It was just there. Under my locker cubby. I don't know who's it is, but it's for... for bruising."
James stared at the tube in Joel's hand. For a split second, his expression shifted—a flicker of something that wasn't quite anger, but wasn't kindness either. It was a dark, private look that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Lucky you," James said, his voice dropping to a low, mocking drawl. "It seems you have a secret admirer taking care of you from a distance. Someone who likes to play the hero in the shadows. How touching."
He snatched the tube from Joel's hand, turning it over in his long, elegant fingers. Then, he tossed it back into Joel's lap.
"Apply it. Now."
Joel froze. His heart, which had finally begun to slow down after the meal, went into a frantic, uneven gallop. "N-now?" he stammered, his voice rising in pitch. "Here?"
"Is there an echo in here?" James asked, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "You're hurt. I need you functional. Apply the ointment so we can get on with your sentencing. I don't have all day to wait for your body to decide to heal itself."
Joel's breath came in short, shallow gasps. He looked around the room, his eyes wide and panicked. "But... President... I can't... I mean..."
The bruise was high up on his outer thigh, dangerously close to his hip bone where he had struck the ground. To apply the medicine, he would have to unbuckle his belt. He would have to slide his school trousers down.
He looked at James—the boy he had spent two agonizing years watching from across the cafeteria, the boy whose posters he'd seen in the hallway, the boy who had just kissed him and then destroyed him. The idea of exposing even a centimeter of skin in front of James Thorn felt like walking into a fire.
James saw the hesitation. He saw the way Joel's face had turned a deep, bruised purple of embarrassment. A slow, wicked smirk spread across James's lips—the kind of look that meant he knew exactly what Joel was thinking.
"What's the matter, Joel?" James whispered, leaning in so close that Joel could smell the cologne on his skin. "Are you waiting for me to do it for you? Is that the 'Princess treatment' you were hoping for? You want the President of the Student Council to get down on his knees and rub ointment into your skin?"
Joel's brain felt like it was short-circuiting. The image James described sent a jolt through his system that was half-terror and half-electrifying shame. "No!" he gasped out, his hands flying up as if to ward off the thought. "No, please... I didn't... I wasn't..."
"Then do it," James commanded, his voice turning hard again. "Unless you're so shy that you'd rather stay in pain. Or perhaps you're worried about what I might see? Is that it?"
Joel squeezed his eyes shut. He felt trapped. If he refused, James might think he was being defiant—or worse, that he was trying to provoke him. But the alternative was unthinkable. The office felt too small, the air too hot, and James's gaze was like a physical weight pressing against his skin.
He clutched the tube of ointment so hard the plastic crinkled. He thought of the viral video and the watch. He was at the mercy of the boy standing over him.
"I..." Joel started, his voice barely a squeak. He took a deep, shuddering breath and forced himself to look at his own knees. "I'll do it. I'll do it myself. Just... please..."
"Please what?" James teased, his voice like velvet.
"Please... don't look," Joel whispered, his head bowing so low he was almost doubled over.
James let out a soft, dry chuckle that sent shivers down Joel's spine. He stayed right there, looming over the boy who was currently drowning in his own shyness.
"I'll give you two minutes," James said, his voice dropping to a dark, silken murmur. "And Joel? Make sure you're thorough. I don't want to hear another sound of pain from you for the rest of the day."
Joel nodded frantically, his fingers already trembling as they reached for the button of his trousers, his heart hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated panic.