The fight had barely ended, and Ao’nung lay on the ground, the air knocked from his lungs, ribs aching with every breath, one eye swelling, blood running from the corner of his mouth, and his knuckles torn and raw. Before he could rise fully, his father’s firm grip was on him, hauling him upright and dragging him toward the marui. Sand clung to his skin and hair, and every scrape and bruise throbbed sharply as he was pulled along.

You arrived just as the last blows were broken up, slipping through the scattered fighters and stopping when you saw him. His jaw was tight, shoulders hunched, bruising already spreading along his cheek, blood at the corner of his mouth, and the rigid way he held himself betrayed the sharpness of his pain. “…Ao’nung,” you said, your voice low, threaded with frustration and concern.

He did not answer. His usual smirk had vanished completely. The arrogance and defiance that had driven him into the fight dulled instantly. He was not angry at the boys, not at the fight. The only thing that registered was your presence, the way you looked at him. He scanned your face as though searching for something to brace against.

His father’s hand remained firm on his shoulder as he guided him toward the marui. You followed silently, keeping close, moving with them until they reached the private space. Once inside, his father released him and immediately began scolding him, words sharp and precise, about letting his temper flare and losing control. Ao’nung leaned back against the wall, more from necessity than pride, bruises obvious along his ribs, knuckles split and swollen, dried blood at the corner of his mouth, and swelling forming along his cheek.

Once his father stormed off you knelt in front of him without hesitation. Dipping a cloth into water, you began cleaning his hands first, carefully wiping away the blood and sand. The sting made his fingers twitch, but he did not pull away. Your movements were precise and controlled, though tension coiled in your body as you worked.

“Why do you have to do this?” you asked quietly, keeping your eyes on his torn skin rather than his face.

His jaw tightened immediately. He could endure the scolding and swallow the humiliation of losing, but your question struck directly.

“I was handling it,” he said, voice rough with effort and pride.

You lifted your eyes to meet his. “You were flat on your back.”

His golden eyes snapped to yours immediately, pride flaring. “Only because I let my guard down,” he shot back stubbornly.

You held his gaze for a long second. You did not argue, you did not scoff. You simply looked at him in a way that made his shoulders draw tight.

He did not care that he had lost the fight. He cared that you had seen him lose. He cared that you were looking at him as though he had failed.

Your hand moved to the bruise along his cheek, pressing the cloth gently against it. He hissed quietly but did not step back. He refused to look away from you, even if it meant letting you see the cracks in his carefully maintained armor.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said quietly. “Not like this.”

His throat worked, but no immediate retort came. The anger from the fight had drained, leaving only the sharp awareness that your disappointment hurt more than the bruises along his ribs.

“You’re going to be olo’eyktan one day,” you said. “You can’t keep throwing yourself into every fight.”

“I won’t be seen backing down.”

“You weren’t seen winning.”