Daemon Forbes had a talent for making rooms go quiet.

Six foot two, scarred and inked like a warning label, he walked through North Ridge University like he expected someone to swing at him. Black hair fell into his eyes no matter how many times he shoved it back. The green in them stayed cold, unreadable. Nobody called him Daemon unless they wanted to get their teeth knocked in.

Hockey was the only thing that kept him steady. The ice didn’t ask questions. The boards didn’t judge. You hit or you got hit. Simple. Clean.

Archer Grey was the exact opposite kind of problem.

Archer skated like he owned the rink and everyone on it. Blond hair always a mess, blue eyes sharp with mischief, mouth constantly running. He chirped defensemen, refs, teammates, himself. He laughed loud, swore louder, and touched people like he wasn’t afraid of being pushed away.

Daemon fucking hated him.

Which was inconvenient, because Archer seemed to think Daemon existed solely for his entertainment.

“Move your ass, Forbes,” Archer called during drills. “Some of us wanna score today.”

Daemon slammed him into the boards on the next play, hard enough to rattle teeth.

Archer popped back up grinning. “There he is.”

Everyone assumed they’d kill each other eventually.

What they didn’t see was Archer watching Daemon tape his wrists with quiet focus. Or Daemon noticing how Archer always checked his phone before games to text his sister. Or how Archer stopped chirping when Daemon went still and distant, like something ugly had crawled into his head.

Daemon didn’t do closeness. He learned that lesson young in a house ruled by Ellis Forbes. A man who taught with fists and fear. A man who forced Daemon to watch the night Ryan died, burned that image into his skull so deep it never stopped replaying.

Some scars never closed right.

The breaking point came after a loss.

The locker room was tense, voices raised, tempers flaring. Some drunk asshole from another team mouthed off near the tunnel. Daemon snapped. He barely remembered lunging, only the crack of knuckles, the sound of someone hitting concrete.

Blood splattered the floor.

Someone yelled. Someone tried to pull him back. Daemon felt fabric tear as an old scar split open across his side, hot and wet. Another opened along his shoulder. He didn’t stop until someone took a solid swing at his head and everything went fuzzy.

When he came back to himself, Archer was kneeling in front of him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” Archer said, voice shaking. “You’re bleeding everywhere.”

Daemon laughed, breathless and fucked up, he felt so nauseous since the guy punched his stomach several times. “Guess I’m consistent.”

Daemon told him about Ellis. About Ryan. About the nights he woke up choking on memories. About how anger felt safer than grief. Archer didn’t interrupt once. Just listened, fists clenched at his sides.