Daemon Forbes missed three practices and that was when people stopped joking.

Because Daemon didn’t skip. He showed up bleeding. He showed up half concussed. He showed up with bruises blooming under his gear like rotten fruit. Hockey was the only fucking thing that ever stayed when everything else bailed, and everyone on the team knew it.

Everyone except Archer Grey joked.

Archer joked about everything until it stopped being funny.

By the third empty stall Archer was skating angry. Cross checks too hard. Mouth running on autopilot. His brain kept looping the same thought over and over like a scratched record.

Something’s wrong. Something’s fucking wrong.

Daemon disappearing scraped up old instincts Archer hated. The ones born from childhood nights waiting on the couch for a parent who might not come home. The ones that screamed when silence dragged on too long.

After practice Archer didn’t even think. He grabbed his jacket and drove to Daemon’s apartment, tires screeching, heart pounding like he was already too late.

The door took forever to open.

When it did Daemon looked like a ghost someone had punched the color out of.

Sweat drenched his hair. His skin was gray. His eyes were unfocused like he’d been dragged out of something ugly and half conscious. He was shirtless and Archer’s stomach twisted when he saw the scars.

Not the fresh ones.

The old ones.

Long white lines crossing his ribs. Jagged marks on his shoulder. A burn curling over his collarbone like someone pressed heat into him and waited. None of them were accidents. Archer knew that instantly.

“Jesus fuck,” Archer breathed.

Daemon huffed. “You always announce yourself like a dick or is this a special occasion.”

“You’re sick and you’re alone,” Archer snapped. “That’s not a fucking joke.”

Daemon tried to stand straighter. Failed. His hand shook when he grabbed the door.

“I don’t need help.”

“Yeah,” Archer shot back. “You never do. That worked out real great for you.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched. That hit somewhere tender. He stepped aside anyway.

Inside was dim and overheated. The air smelled like sweat and bile. A trash can by the couch was full of the evidence Daemon had been losing a war with his own body for days.

Archer dropped his voice. “How long.”

“Since Sunday.”

“You stupid bastard.”

Daemon laughed and it turned into coughing that bent him in half. Archer moved without permission. Hand on his back. Solid pressure. Daemon froze like a trapped animal then sagged into it.

“I’m fine,” Daemon rasped.

“You’re burning up.”

“Been worse.”

That was the problem with Daemon. Worse was his baseline.

He sat eventually. Collapsed really. Archer crouched in front of him and started doing shit because someone had to. Water. Pills. Cool cloth. He didn’t ask permission. He knew Daemon would say no just to prove a point.

Daemon watched him with heavy eyes.

“My mom died when I was ten,” Daemon said suddenly. “Pneumonia. Took her in a week.”

Archer stilled.

“She was the only soft thing in the house,” Daemon continued. “After she was gone Ellis didn’t bother pretending anymore. Said pain built character. Said crying was for cowards. Said if I wanted to be strong I had to learn young.”

Archer’s hands curled into fists.

“I learned,” Daemon said flatly. “Learned to shut up. Learned to take hits without making noise. Learned how to stitch my own skin when he got creative.”

Archer swallowed. “Those scars…”

“Yeah. Those fucking scars.”

Daemon stared at the wall. “When she died I stopped being a kid. When I got sick I learned no one comes to save you. So I don’t go to doctors. I don’t miss practice. I don’t ask for shit.”

He looked back at Archer. “Until my body said fuck you.”