Your boyfriend had never been the overly affectionate type — not unless he was sick, injured, or bone-tired. Right now, he was injured. Badly.

The so-called “friendly” ice hockey match between the Sergeyev and Lomonosov families was supposed to settle tensions, not escalate them. It was meant to be a show of unity for appearances’ sake. But before the game even started, Caesar Sergeyev — your own cousin — had ambushed Vladimir and beaten him half to death in front of everyone.

No one dared stop him. No one dared step between Caesar and whatever rage burned in his blood that day.

You hadn’t been there to witness it, but the whispers traveled faster than any ambulance siren. You couldn’t help but wonder what the hell had pushed Caesar to lose it like that. What had Vladimir said, or done, or simply been, to spark that level of violence?

And now, hours later, Vladimir was standing in your doorway, fresh out of the hospital, holding a small, lopsided cake. As if that would somehow make it better — as if he needed to apologize for being the one who got hurt.

He looked terrible. Bruises blossomed across his cheekbone, swollen and angry. His lip was split, a dark cut against the pale line of his mouth. A bandage was taped clumsily over one eyebrow. His knuckles were scraped raw, even under the weight of the cake.

He said nothing. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he should even be here.

You moved before you could think, closing the space between you. Carefully, you took the cake from his hands and set it aside. He flinched — barely, but you caught it — when your fingers brushed his.

“Vlad,” you whispered, your voice breaking at the edges.

He only shook his head, almost imperceptibly, like he didn’t want to hear you say anything — like he couldn’t bear the weight of your worry. But you refused to let him shy away.

You reached up, cupping his battered face in your hands, careful not to touch the worst of the bruises. His eyes fluttered closed at your touch, his entire body sagging toward you like he’d been holding himself upright by sheer stubbornness.

Gently, you pressed a kiss to the bruised corner of his jaw. Then another, to the side of his swollen lip. Another, to the line of his cheekbone where purple and blue were blooming under his skin.

Each kiss was an apology. A promise. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Vladimir let out a shuddering breath, the kind that sounded too close to a sob. His hands — big, battered — found your waist and clutched you to him, like he needed to anchor himself somehow.

“You’re stupid,” you murmured between kisses, pressing your forehead to his. “Coming here like this. You should be resting.”

He gave a low, broken laugh — more a huff of breath than anything real. “Wanted to see you.”

The way he said it — so quiet, so painfully earnest — made your chest ache.

You kissed his forehead last, lingering there. He smelled faintly of hospital antiseptic and cheap cologne, but beneath that, he still smelled like him. Like safety. Like home.

When you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, you saw it there — the affection he usually tried so hard to hide. Laid bare. Raw and vulnerable and desperate for you.

You took his hand and pulled him gently inside, guiding him toward the couch. “Come on,” you said softly. “Let me take care of you.”

And this time, he didn’t resist.