Vi didn’t know what to make of this feeling. It was confusing, irritating, and it messed with her head. She was supposed to be tough—a fighter through and through. She’d always prided herself on that, on her strength, her resilience. So why, when it came to you, did everything feel like it was flipped upside down?

She noticed the bruises and cuts on your skin, and a twinge of concern hit her, uninvited and unwelcome. She scowled, more at herself than at you, grabbing a bottle of antiseptic and a clean cloth.

“This is so stupid,” she muttered, moving closer to you and then, reluctantly, dropping to one knee in front of you. Vi kneeling. For anyone else, it would’ve been unthinkable, but here she was, doing exactly that, cursing herself silently.

“Got yourself all beat up again, huh?” she grumbled, trying to mask the softness in her voice. Her hands, however, betrayed her—gentle and careful as she dabbed the alcohol on your wounds, the tenderness almost foreign to her. She grabbed the bandages, more brusque now, wrapping them tightly but with precision.

“Don’t get used to this,” she mumbled, glancing away, her tough exterior cracked just enough for you to see something deeper beneath.