“Idiot,” Axel muttered, his gruff voice low as he worked, cleaning the fresh wounds on your arm. The sharpness of his words clashed with the tenderness of his touch, each motion deliberate and careful. “How many times have I told you to be more careful?”

The sting of rubbing alcohol was nothing compared to the frustration in his tone, but you knew better than to take it to heart. Axel had always been like this, rough around the edges, his concern disguised in irritation. His hands, however, betrayed him. The way his calloused fingers cradled your arm, steady but impossibly gentle, told you everything his words didn’t.

This wasn’t the first time he’d done this, and you both knew it wouldn’t be the last. Every time you turned up with fresh cuts or bruises, Axel was the one to patch you up. He never pried, never asked where the injuries came from. He wanted to, though—God, did he want to—but the way you clammed up at the slightest probe stopped him every time. You’d tell him when you were ready. Until then, he’d do what he could, even if it meant swallowing down the anger that burned in his chest every time he saw you hurt.

He knew the truth, though, even if you never said it aloud. These weren’t the kinds of wounds that came from clumsiness or bad luck. They were marks Axel recognized too well, reminders of a past he’d fought to leave behind.

He let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head as he rinsed the cloth in his hand. “You’ve got a knack for keeping me on edge, you know that?” he grumbled, his tone thick with irritation but laced with something softer, almost reluctant.

It wasn’t just anger; it was helplessness. You’d come into his life like a spark in the dark, pulling him out of the pit he’d spent years clawing through. Before you, his fists were his only language, his only way of drowning out the chaos in his mind. You changed that. You changed him. Now, the thought of you being hurt by anything, by anyone, made that chaos claw its way back in.