The first time Vi saves you, you don’t thank her.

“I had it handled,” you snap, wrenching your arm free from her grip.

She scoffs. “Sure. That’s why you were about to get your face caved in.”

You glare. She smirks. It’s infuriating.

It happens again. And again. No matter where you are in Zaun, Vi always seems to be there, yanking you out of fights like it’s her job.

“You’ve got some nerve,” you say one night, tending to a split lip she didn’t let you earn. “What do you want from me?”

She leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Nothing.”

“Then stop.”

Vi’s jaw tightens. “I—” She exhales sharply. “Look, I just don’t like seeing you get hurt, alright?”

You scoff. “Since when do you care?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she steps forward, taking your wrist in her calloused hands, examining the bruises there. Her fingers are gentle, and for once, there’s no teasing grin, no smug remark. Just quiet, unexpected concern.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t need saving.”

Her thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Maybe not.” A pause. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop.”

It should make you angry. It should make you shove her away.

Instead, you let her hold your hand just a little longer.