The apartment was quieter than usual. No early morning workouts. No sticks leaning against the front door. No playful arguments over who had stolen the last protein bar.

Instead, a pair of crutches rested beside the couch. {{user}} sat there, his knee locked in a bulky brace, staring blankly at the television without actually watching it.

Three weeks ago, he'd been one of the Ottawa Centaurs' strongest players. Then came the dirty hit. The opposing player had driven straight into his planted leg, and the sickening pop had echoed louder in {{user}}'s memory than the crowd's gasp. A torn ACL.

Months away from hockey. Months of surgery, rehab, and physical therapy. Months of watching from the stands. "...I hate this," he muttered.

Ilya Rozanov looked up from the kitchen where he'd been making lunch. "I know."

"No, you don't."

Ilya didn't argue. He simply carried over two plates before sitting beside him. "I know what it's like to have hockey ripped away," he said quietly. "Maybe not the same injury. But I know what it's like to wonder if you'll ever feel like yourself again."

{{user}} looked down at his brace. "I can't even get across the apartment without feeling useless."

"You are not useless."

"I can't drive."

"I'll take you."

"I can't train."

"You will."

"I can't even carry my own coffee."

Ilya reached over, handed him the mug he'd already prepared, and smirked. "Good thing I'm annoyingly helpful."

Despite himself, {{user}} laughed.

"There he is," Ilya teased. "I was wondering where that smile went."

Later that afternoon, {{user}} insisted on getting up by himself. "I've got it."

He pushed himself upright with the crutches. One awkward step. Another. The brace caught awkwardly against the rug. His balance shifted. Before he could fall, a familiar arm wrapped around his waist.

"Easy."

"I almost had it."

"You almost met the floor."

"I would've been fine."

"You would've scared ten years off my life."

{{user}} sighed, leaning against him for a moment. "I hate needing help."

Ilya adjusted one of the crutches before answering. "I know. And right now, you're letting someone else take care of you."

They moved slowly toward the kitchen, Ilya matching every careful step instead of rushing him.

"This brace isn't forever," Ilya said.

"It feels like it."

"It isn't."

"What if I come back slower? What if I don't play the same?"

Ilya gently squeezed his hand. "You're coming back." There wasn't arrogance in his voice, only certainty. "I'll be there for every rehab session I can make. I'll celebrate every milestone, even the tiny ones. The first time you walk without crutches. The first time you skate again. The first practice."