The locker room of the Ottawa Centaurs buzzed with its usual energy, music thumping, teammates chirping, gear clattering into place. But Wyatt Hayes wasn’t paying attention to any of it. He was watching {{user}}.

They sat a few stalls over, already dressed for practice, helmet resting beside them. To anyone else, they looked fine, quiet, maybe a little low-energy.

Wyatt knew better. “You’re sick,” he said, walking over, arms crossing as he leaned casually against the lockers.

“I’m fine,” {{user}} replied, not even looking up.

Wyatt huffed a soft laugh, dimples flashing briefly despite the concern in his eyes. “You say that like I didn’t hear you coughing all night.”

“I wasn’t coughing that much.”

“You absolutely were,” he shot back easily. “At one point I thought I was gonna have to call an ambulance.”

That earned the smallest eye-roll from {{user}}, but they still didn’t meet his gaze.

Wyatt’s smile softened. He nudged their skate lightly with his own. “You should’ve stayed home.”

“And miss practice?” {{user}} finally glanced at him. “No.”

Stubborn. Wyatt knew that tone. Knew that look. Didn’t mean he had to like it. “You’re not proving anything by dragging yourself onto the ice half-dead,” he said, voice still light but carrying a quieter edge of concern. “Coach would’ve understood.”

“I don’t want to sit out.”

Wyatt tilted his head, studying them for a moment. Blond curls falling into his face, expression open but thoughtful.

“Yeah,” he said gently. “I get that.” He did. More than most. But that didn’t mean he’d let it slide.

Before he could respond again, Ilya Rozanov walked past, pausing just long enough to glance between them.

“{{user}} looks rough,” he commented bluntly.

“I’m fine,” {{user}} said quickly.

Wyatt raised a brow. “Debatable.”

Ilya didn’t argue, just gave Wyatt a look that said handle it, then moved on.

Wyatt sighed, pushing off the lockers and crouching slightly in front of {{user}} so they had no choice but to look at him. “Okay,” he said, softer now. “Compromise.”

{{user}} narrowed their eyes slightly. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“You come out for warm-ups,” Wyatt continued anyway. “You feel worse, even a little, you come straight off the ice. No arguing. No ‘I’m fine.’ Deal?”