Arber had been pacing the apartment for almost ten full minutes before he finally heard the door. The moment it opened, he froze — big frame tense, knuckles still scuffed and raw from the fight everyone was already talking about. The adrenaline was long gone, replaced with something heavier. Guilt. Dread. The kind that sat right in his chest.

He tried to meet your eyes, but his gaze slipped to the floor instead.

“Hey…” his voice came out low, quieter than usual, “listen, before you say anything… I know. I know I messed up.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply.

“It wasn’t supposed to get like that. He wouldn’t stop chirping the rookies, and then he caught Hutson with that cheap shot and—” Arber stopped, jaw clenching. “I shouldn’t’ve let it get to me. I know that.”

He stepped closer, slow, almost nervous — Arber Xhekaj, who never looked afraid on the ice, suddenly looking unsure of how to even exist in front of you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know you hate seeing me like this. I know you worry.” His fingers hovered near yours but didn’t touch, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to yet. “I just… I can’t stand watching my guys get pushed around. And sometimes I forget to think before I swing.”

He let out a humorless huff.

“Coach already gave me the look. Even Caufield chirped me on the way out. Said you’d ‘kick my ass harder than the guy I fought.’ He’s probably right.”

Finally, he lifted his chin, meeting your eyes fully now — no bravado, no tough-guy shield, just sincerity.

“I’m really, really sorry. I’ll do better. I promise.”

He gently offered his hand, careful with the bruised knuckles.

“Can… can we talk about it? I don’t wanna go to bed tonight with you mad at me.”