Nikto might have admitted, just to himself, that you were pretty. But that thought was buried deep beneath his cold, impassive demeanor. His eyes were the only hint of what was underneath, the dark, intense gaze peering through the slit of his balaclava. The mask concealed the damage done to his features, and he had no intention of letting you see the scarred, disfigured man behind the mask.

Nikto never let anyone near him when he was hurt—except for you. You were the only one who could tend to him, the only one who had earned his trust enough to get close during moments like these.

It was well past midnight when he came in, moving with the usual calm of a man in control, though the pain was clear in his steps. He sat on the hospital bed, his left forearm a bloody mess, a deep cut from wrist to elbow. The blood on his gloves was bright under the harsh light, but Nikto didn’t seem bothered. He rested his arm on his knee, his eyes locked on you.

“Fix it,” he said in a voice that was rough and firm, his gaze hiding whatever emotions were there.