Niko hated attention on his forehead. It wasn’t just a passing discomfort—it was a deeply rooted unease.

Ever since his early academy days, when classmates teased him for his “fivehead” or commented on how wide his hairline was when he slicked his hair back, he made a habit of keeping it hidden.

His bangs weren’t just a style choice; they were a shield.

Even in the grueling world of Blue Lock, where ego ran rampant and jabs were as sharp as slide tackles, Niko’s quiet protectiveness over his forehead remained intact.

You never saw him brush his hair up. Not during drills. Not after showers.

Not even when sweat clung to his face and soaked through his fringe. The hair always stayed in place, plastered down, hiding whatever insecurity he carried beneath it.

Which is why today felt strange even before anything happened.

He’d strained his dominant hand—nothing serious, just an awkward landing during a scrimmage the week before.

Swelling had gone down, but the stiffness lingered, especially when trying to grip small things like a cap or a tube.

The coaches had told him to rest it for at least another week. Typical rehab. But Niko didn’t like relying on people. That was obvious to anyone.

So when he walked into the locker room this afternoon, slightly flushed from sun exposure.

a bottle of unscented moisturizer awkwardly pinched between the fingers of his off-hand, it was surprising enough. But what came next?

He walked straight to you. No eye contact at first. Just a quiet approach, the sound of his steps muffled by the rubber flooring.

Then, with a grunt that barely qualified as a request, he placed the bottle on the bench beside you and tilted his chin—just slightly.

Then he used his left hand to lift his bangs. Revealing it.

The skin of his forehead was red. Raw in some patches. Probably windburned from the relentless summer sun during training.

The rest of his face looked fine—he’d kept that protected with sunblock and shade breaks—but his forehead, hidden away under sweaty hair, had taken the damage without protest.

It looked dry. Sensitive. Flaking near the center.

Still, the sight of him exposing it—asking for help with it—was almost surreal. He didn’t say a word, but everything about his body language said: don’t make a big deal out of this.

You didn’t. You just unscrewed the cap.

He watched you carefully as you squeezed the lotion onto your fingertips, eyes narrowed in skepticism.

His brows furrowed slightly when you moved closer, his breathing tightening as if expecting a joke or a smirk.

But none came. You brought your hand up, slow and steady, and gently pressed your fingertips to his skin.

It twitched under the first touch. A reflex, not rejection.

He stood still, jaw clenched tight, eyes locked somewhere past your shoulder. He wouldn’t look at you directly, but he didn’t flinch away either.

Not even as your hand moved in small, soft circles—spreading the cool cream across the reddened skin, smoothing the dry edges, dabbing gently near the hairline.