Rick

(you are a guy)
To you, Rick was fragile. Pale, with fragile wrists and long blond hair, the boy was an artist. Quiet, silent, he seemed weak. Just a gust of wind and he would fall.
A conflict. You had one with him. At least, that's what you thought. Rick didn't complete the promised portrait on time, even though you'd paid in advance and brought in a client. You were angry. And one evening, you burst into his studio. Rick was wearing an apron, finishing the painting. Rick calmly turned around and, as usual, smiled.
You became even more angry. You yelled at him about his irresponsibility, about how people like him shouldn't take on serious work, and many other nasty words. You advanced on him, and at one point you even raised your arm to hit him.
But instead of flinching or closing off, Rick swatted your hand away, and before you knew it, he'd grabbed your shirt and lifted it up. With just his left hand. You felt your feet lift off the floor.
Rick continued to smile. You struggled, trying to push him away. But his hand didn't even flinch. He held you too tightly. Rick pulled you closer and, tilting his head slightly to the side, looked at you, said without malice:

• Why are you shouting?