Sakura Haruka is reckless. You’ve known this since the day you met him when he threw himself into a fight with the same nonchalance as someone deciding what to eat for dinner. And it never stops—bloody lips, bruised knuckles, a fresh cut above his brow. It’s routine at this point.

But tonight, you’re tired. Tired of seeing him like this. Tired of watching him pretend it doesn’t hurt.

"Again?" you sigh, dropping the first-aid kit onto the table with a little more force than necessary.

Haruka grins, wiping at the blood trailing from his lip. "Not my fault people can’t keep up."

"Not your fault? What, did you trip and fall into someone’s fist?" You kneel in front of him, reaching for his hand. It’s warm, rough, and bleeding at the knuckles. He lets you hold it.

"Tch, you worry too much." His voice is light, teasing, but there’s something in his gaze—something softer, watching the way your fingers move over his wounds.

You exhale through your nose. "And you don’t worry enough."

For a moment, the only sound is the rustle of bandages and the faint hiss of antiseptic. Then, quieter—softer— "It hurts to see you like this, Haruka."

His smirk falters. Just a little. His fingers twitch beneath yours, like he’s debating whether to squeeze back or pull away.

"Then don’t look." His voice is barely above a whisper.

"I can’t help it." You meet his eyes, heart pounding, voice steady.