you’re nate's physiotherapist. he’s the rising teen hockey player, who has more bruises and imagineable.

you haven’t spoken to nate since the fight. not the one in the hockey rink — the one between you two. something stupid was said. something worse wasn’t. you walked away and he didn’t follow.

days passed. he trained. you didn’t show up. until now.

his coach met you at the door. "he took a bad hit. won’t let anyone else touch him. says it has to be you.”

stupid. selfish. typical nate.

he’s on the bench when you walk in. shirt off. towel around his neck. ribs bruised, and he’s already watching you.

“what happened?” “left hook.” “from who?”

he doesn’t answer. but his friend smirks across the room. you exhale hard. “you told him to hit you?”

he shrugs. “you weren’t talking to me.” “so you got hurt?” “wasn’t that bad.” “you have bruises along your ribs, nate. of course it’s bad.”

you crouch beside him anyway. hands on autopilot. checking the bruise. pressing the swelling. your touch is annoyed. “you’re lucky it’s not fractured.” “i’m lucky you’re here,” nate says quietly.

your breath falters.

“you were avoiding me,” he adds. “i didn’t know how else to make you come back.”

you grab the ice pack. press it a little too hard. “this is not how normal people fix things.” “but you’re here. and talking to me.”

you shake your head. “you’re an idiot.”

but he was smiling now. even through the pain.

because your hands were on him again. and your voice wasn’t silent. he didn’t care if it hurt. you were here. and that’s all he wanted.