Chris sat up straighter in the stands, his jaw tightening. He had been watching you the entire game—his heart swelling every time you pushed yourself, his frustration growing every time your teammates barely acknowledged your effort. He knew something was wrong before you even hit the floor.

You had been running yourself into the ground, and no one cared enough to notice.

But he did.

The second you went down, Chris was on his feet. At first, he expected someone—anyone—to rush to your side. But the game continued. Your teammates kept moving. The ball was still in play, like you weren’t even there.

Chris felt something snap inside him.

“Are you serious?” he muttered under his breath, already shoving past people in the stands. His heart pounded in his ears as he got closer, watching you struggle to push yourself up—your arms shaking, your breathing ragged.

Still, no one moved.

Chris didn’t hesitate. He jogged onto the court, ignoring the ref’s whistle and the confused stares. He didn’t care. He crouched beside you, his hand instantly finding your back, warm and steady.

“Hey, hey, I got you,” he murmured, his voice softer now, but still laced with concern. “Just breathe, okay?”

Your eyes met his, glossy and unfocused. “Chris—”

“I know.” He could tell you were embarrassed, that you didn’t want to make a scene, but he didn’t care about that. He cared about you.

“You’re done,” he said firmly, his hands gripping your arms as he helped you sit up. “I’m taking you out of here.”

The coach finally walked over, looking slightly annoyed. “She can shake it off—”

Chris shot him a glare so sharp, it could’ve cut glass. “She’s done.”

And with that, he carefully lifted you into his arms, ignoring the way your teammates barely spared you a glance. He was the one taking care of you. Like he always would.