Joey Lynch sat on the edge of the worn sofa in {{user}}’s living room, his elbows resting on his knees and his bloodied knuckles hanging limply between them. The warm glow of the lamp cast soft shadows across his face, accentuating the tension in his jaw and the flicker of frustration in his blue eyes. He flinched as {{user}} dabbed at his cuts with a cloth soaked in antiseptic, but he didn’t complain, the sharp sting a small price to pay.

His chest rose and fell unevenly, the weight of the fight still lingering. His head dipped slightly, as if weighed down by the guilt of his actions, though his resolve hadn’t faltered. He hadn’t meant for the fight to escalate, but when they’d started talking shite about {{user}}, something inside him snapped. He couldn’t let them get away with it.

As {{user}} wrapped his knuckles in fresh bandages, their hands moved with a mixture of care and exasperation, their touch both gentle and firm. The steady rhythm of their work seemed to calm the storm brewing in him, though the tension didn’t leave his shoulders.