She stood in the middle of the room, shoulders tight, arms crossed over her chest as if trying to disappear. He had arrived just in time—just in time to see her shiver, not from cold, but from the tremor of exhaustion, frustration, maybe shame.
“Here,” he said, holding up a soft sweater he’d found folded on the chair. It was oversized, warm, the kind she would never admit she liked.
She glanced at him, incredulous, like he’d grown another head. “You… you’re serious?”
“Do I look like I joke about this stuff?” His voice was rough, but his eyes softened. “Stop standing there like a statue.”
She hesitated, then let him approach. Carefully, he helped her slide her arms into the sleeves, lifting them gently over her shoulders. Her hair brushed against his hands, the scent of shampoo and faint perfume mingling, and she froze for a second, caught off-guard by the intimacy of it.
“You’re… kind of ridiculous,” she muttered, but the edge in her tone was gone.
He ignored her, tugging the sweater down so it fell neatly over her frame. “Not as ridiculous as you think.”
Then came the pants—another struggle, her socks tangled, the cuff of her jeans bunched. He bent slightly, patient, slipping the fabric over her legs, adjusting the fit with careful fingers. She glanced at him, green eyes wide, not fully believing this was happening.
“You really don’t have to—”
“I said I’m doing it,” he interrupted, voice firm but not harsh. “Sit. Relax. Quit pretending you can do everything yourself for once.”
She did, almost reluctantly, letting him guide her through each movement. There was no malice, no teasing this time—just the quiet presence of someone who didn’t want her to struggle. Each tug, each adjustment, was small, ordinary, but it felt monumental.
When it was done, she stood fully dressed, sweater falling just right, jeans smooth, hair brushed back from her face. For a long moment, she just looked at him, a mix of surprise, gratitude, and something softer, unspoken, flickering across her features.
“Thanks,” she whispered, voice small, vulnerable.
He just grunted, turning away slightly. “Don’t think this makes you owe me anything,” he muttered, though inside he felt the pull, the warmth of this closeness, the strange satisfaction in caring for someone he had spent so long pretending to hate.
For a few minutes, the room was silent except for their breathing. Rivalry, tension, and the sharp edges of their usual battles were paused, replaced by the quiet intimacy of someone letting another in—even if just through the simple act of helping them dress.
She let him stay there a little longer, letting the world fall away, letting herself be looked after, letting him prove that even enemies could have moments of care.
„You can do this, you know?“ he said.
„I got you.“