The room smelled faintly of sweat and disinfectant, the air heavy with the lingering exhaustion of a day packed with volleyball matches and grueling morning training.

Daichi sat on the edge of the chair, his posture upright yet relaxed, letting you take the lead as you set out the first aid supplies on the small table nearby.

His usually commanding presence was softened now, tempered by fatigue, but his attentive gaze followed your every movement.

You worked methodically, opening antiseptic wipes and laying out bandages, gauging the extent of his scrapes and bruises with a calm precision.

Daichi flinched slightly when you touched a particularly sore spot on his forearm, but he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, a subtle nod showing his trust in your hands.

His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, a nervous rhythm that belied his otherwise composed demeanor.

As you cleaned a shallow cut along his knee, the faint sting made him grit his teeth, but his expression remained stoic.

He rarely complained, and now was no exception, though the slight tightening of his jaw and the small, almost imperceptible shift in his posture told you he felt it.

You murmured a soft reassurance, and his eyes flickered toward you for just a second, a hint of relief in that silent acknowledgment.

Next, you carefully applied the antiseptic cream, spreading it evenly, ensuring that no spot was left untreated.

Daichi’s breathing was steady, but his shoulders twitched slightly each time you moved over a particularly tender area.

When you reached his ankle—a faint bruise from an awkward landing—you bent down, your hand steady as you wrapped the bandage snugly but not too tight.

He watched quietly, offering the occasional small nod, trusting your touch without hesitation.

As you worked, your fingers brushing lightly against his skin, there was a quiet intimacy in the act, a sense of care and focus that neither words nor glances could fully capture.

Each bandage, each careful touch, was a small reassurance that he wasn’t alone in his exhaustion, that someone was tending to him with patience and calm.

When the last scrape was cleaned and the final bandage secured, Daichi exhaled with a quiet, tired relief.

He flexed his fingers and toes experimentally, testing for discomfort, and gave a small, approving nod when he felt nothing restrictive.

His gaze met yours, soft and almost vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed. It was a silent “thank you,” heavy with trust and understated gratitude.