You’re not even surprised that he’s walking on it.

Everyone else is fussing — trainers hovering, staff talking too quickly, teammates shooting anxious glances — but Noel moves through the chaos with that same unreadable calm he always has.

Except for one thing.

He keeps looking for you.

When he spots you near the hallway, he finally lets someone else handle the post-match noise. He walks directly toward you — no limp, no visible wince, but you can tell by the tension in his jaw that it hurts more than he’ll admit.

“Noel—”

“I’m fine,”

he says, because of course he does.

But the moment you reach him, he exhales just a little. Quietly. Too controlled to call a sigh, but too soft to be anything else.

You guide him to sit on the bench in the empty changing room. He doesn’t argue. That alone says more than any complaint ever could.

When you kneel in front of him to check his ankle, his hands immediately land on your shoulders — not stopping you, just grounding himself.

“It’s swollen,” you murmur.

“I said I’m fine.”

He says it calmly, but his breath hitches when you press gently at the joint.

You raise an eyebrow.

He avoids your eyes.

For Noel, that’s the same as shouting yes, it hurts. Once the initial assessment is done, you start wrapping it carefully. He watches your hands like they’re the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly.

Outside, the world still thinks he’s unshakeable. But here, with you, he allows himself this tiny moment of softness— Pain, vulnerability, comfort, and quiet reliance. A side of Noel Noa only you ever get to see.