The rink smells like metal and sweat, sharp and cold. You stand on the sidelines with your medic bag at your feet, arms folded, watching Kane, Jude, and Preston move like a loaded weapon. The rest of the Vipers skate the other side, meant to take the hits.

Kane doesn’t check—he calibrates pain. Shoulder into sternum, shove timed just late enough to hurt, precise enough to pass. No one argues. No one dares. Kane Davenport doesn’t need volume to dominate; his silence does the work.

Jude watches warily. Preston mutters under his breath after another player hits the boards. Neither speaks to Kane.

Every brutal hit ends the same way: a glance toward the boards. Toward you.

You’re here as the standby medic, neutral, detached—supposedly. But Kane tracks you like a fixed point. Everyone notices—even if no one understands why.

The whistle cuts sharp. Players peel off, laughing, swearing, shoving each other toward the bench. Kane doesn’t follow. He carves a path straight to you.

Jude slows. Preston outright stops.

“What the hell…” Preston mutters.

Kane stops inches from the boards, lifts his visor. “What?”

“What are you doing?” you snap. “You’re punishing them for nothing.”

“They can take it.”

“That’s not the point.”

Before you can finish, Kane reaches out.

Preston freezes. Jude’s jaw drops. Kane Davenport does not touch people. He never has. He flinched at accidental contact. You remember how you couldn’t even brush his sleeve in the beginning without him pulling back.

Now his hand closes around your wrist. Not rough, not demanding. Gentle, grounding. His thumb traces slow, possessive circles, like he’s reassuring himself you’re real.

You pull away.

He freezes. Controlled. Dangerously calm. His eyes darken. “Don’t,” he says quietly.

“I’m mad at you,” you say. “You don’t get to touch me like it’s nothing.”

He steps closer, voice low. “You can be mad at me all you want, but you don’t get to pull away from me.”

Preston stares. Jude drags a hand down his face. Kane hates being touched, hates proximity, hates vulnerability.

Except now he craves it—from you.

His hand comes up again, slow, careful. Cups the back of your neck. Thumb brushes your jaw, gentle, reverent. “I don’t like it,” he murmurs. “When you do that.”

“That doesn’t mean you get access whenever you want,” you snap.

His jaw tightens, irritation flickering, but his touch stays soft. “It means you don’t disappear from me because you’re angry.”

Preston stares. Jude shakes his head. Kane—who once flinched from the lightest touch—now looks like he needs this contact to stay balanced.

You push lightly at his chest. “Dial it back. Or I won’t watch you turn cruel.”

A long pause.

“Fine,” Kane says, clipped. Reluctant. He releases you, helmet sliding into place.

He returns to the rink, skating with the same brutal precision—but now there’s a dangerous calm. Every pivot measured. Every glance sharp. Every hit a threat, even when it doesn’t land. The team senses it immediately: Kane is untouchable, untamable, and yet tethered to you in a way no one else could imagine.

The scrimmage resumes. Still violent, still dominant—but controlled, measured. Every so often, Kane glances toward the boards. Not the play. You.

Kane Davenport may hate the world touching him—but with you, he craves it like a lifeline. And God help anyone who makes you pull away again.