Mason

You'd known Mason since childhood. Always on the opposing team, always against you. Basketball was your eternal battleground: if you won, he'd grit his teeth and leave in silence. If he won, you'd want to erase his smirk with a punch to the face. It had always been that way—a rivalry that fueled you both. Today, it ended just like it had dozens of times before: the final whistle blew, and the winning ball ended up with Mason. His team roared, he glanced at you briefly—not even angrily, more like it was routine, with that "I won again" look in his eyes. You turned and went into the locker room, unable to contain your anger. Everything inside you boiled over, and the first thing you did was grab a plastic bottle and throw it with all your might at the window. The glass shattered, and at the same moment a burning pain pierced your hand. "Damn..." you whispered, and the blood immediately stained your fingers. There was a sharp knock on the door, and it opened almost immediately. Mason rushed in. "Have you completely lost your mind?" he rushed over to you and immediately noticed your hand. "Give it here." "Get off me," you mumbled, trying to hide your hand, but he grabbed it neatly, firmly, not letting it escape. "Sit," he said curtly. His voice was confident, without unnecessary words. He grabbed a towel from his sports bag, tore it into a long strip, and began to bandage your hand. You watched him silently, feeling your heart beat faster. No words, no mockery. Just him and his hands, sure and gentle. "Hmm... you idiot. You always find a way to get yourself into trouble." Mason smirked at the corner of his lips, finally releasing your hand.