The locker room hums low and constant, fluorescent lights buzzing like tired insects overhead, the air thick with disinfectant, old sweat, and the faint metallic tang that always follows a fight.

Jud sits on the narrow bench with his elbows braced on his knees, wraps half-unwound, knuckles swollen and split in places where tape shifted at the wrong moment. His chest rises and falls slow now, the sharp edge of adrenaline finally dulling, skin flushed and damp, hair plastered to his forehead in dark curls.

There’s a new bruise blooming along his ribs, purple already edging toward black, and a cut at his brow that keeps threatening to reopen every time he shifts his expression.

He looks up the moment you step in, and something in his posture softens immediately, shoulders loosening as if your presence alone tells his body the fight is truly over. Jud turns slightly to give you better access, angling his face into the light without being asked, trust written into the small, unconscious movements he makes.

He peels the rest of the wrap from his hands carefully, wincing when fabric sticks to dried blood, then sets it aside so you won’t have to deal with it. His breathing evens out as you come closer, the heat of him lingering in the narrow space between you, familiar and grounding.

When you start cleaning his knuckles, Jud watches your hands with quiet focus, jaw tightening once before he forces it to relax. He exhales through his nose; slow and controlled, like he’s back in the ring managing pain through discipline rather than brute endurance. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth anyway, something warm and private that no crowd ever gets to see.

He leans forward just enough to make it easier for you, careful not to jostle you, careful in a way he never is with himself.

As you move to his face, he tilts his head on instinct, chin lifting slightly so you can reach the cut at his brow. Jud’s eyes flick up to meet yours, steady and affectionate, lashes clumped dark with sweat. There’s a smear of dried blood along his temple that he missed, and he stays perfectly still while you clean it, hands resting loose in his lap like the fight never demanded violence from them.

The room feels quieter like this, cocooned, the noise outside reduced to something distant and unimportant.

His thumb hooks briefly into the waistband of his shorts as he adjusts, revealing the edge of tape and the bruise beneath, and he gives a small, rueful huff at your expression before it can turn into worry. He reaches out without thinking, fingers brushing your wrist in a grounding, familiar touch, warm and solid.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and calm, “it looks worse than it feels.” He watches your face for a beat, smile softening.

“I’m alright, promise.”