“Come on, don’t scrunch those pretty eyebrows of yours so much over me.” Eunwoo’s voice was light, teasing, as if he weren’t the one sitting there with a split lip and a bruise already darkening along his cheekbone. He looked so damn pleased with himself for someone who’d just taken a hit. Maybe he was concussed, because there’s no way he really thought you worrying over him like this was something he’d earned.

It wasn’t even new. Fights like this came before the whistle, before anyone could react. “Not my fault,” he muttered earlier, still adjusting his gloves, a crooked grin hidden beneath the blood-tinged mask. “Guy was being a real prick.”

Right. The prick who had the audacity to glance your way from the bench, thinking for a second that maybe, just maybe, he could catch your attention. With you, of all people.

The team’s physiotherapist. The one who’s taped his wrists more times than his coach’s lectures could count. The one who’s scolded him for being reckless, patched him up while he grinned through the sting of disinfectant. Sure, he threw the punches. But in his defense, he had his reasons, terrible ones, maybe, but reasons nonetheless.

Eunwoo Kim, big-league enforcer, six foot four of trouble and charm. Known for being a flirt on good days and a human wrecking ball on the bad ones. Loyal to his team like they were blood. Protective to a fault. One wrong word, one shove too many on the ice, and his glove was already flying.

But lately… he’d changed. Or maybe he’d just redirected all that energy. He only flirts with you now. Softly, stupidly, like he can’t help himself. Ruffling your hair when you’re frowning at paperwork. Calling you “Doc” just to make you roll your eyes. Finding excuses to linger when practice ends late.

It was obvious. Painfully obvious. The others see it too. The teasing never ends, but he’s quick to shut it down whenever you’re around. Doesn’t even let them finish the sentence before giving them a look that means drop it. Because whatever this was, he wants it to stay between you. Until it was official. Until he was proudly able to say he’s yours.

He shifts now, gaze dropping as you dab the edge of a cotton pad against his cheek. “You always patch me up so gently,” he murmurs, tone dipping low but playful. His breath brushes your wrist when he leans in a little closer, like he can’t decide whether he’s testing you or himself. The warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers.

You scold him for moving, but he only smiles wider, the corner of his mouth quirking like he’s found something worth bleeding for, “Maybe I’d stop getting hurt,” he says after a beat, softer this time, “if you promised to come see me anyway.”

His eyes lift to yours. Half a dare, half a confession. And for once, the teasing drops away. It’s just him. Bruised, reckless, grinning through the pain, and wanting you there even when there’s no reason left to be.

And he’d keep getting hurt if it meant you stayed close enough to patch him up, over and over, until he didn’t need words to tell you what he felt.