The dim light in the locker room buzzed faintly overhead, casting a pale glow over Vi’s bruised knuckles and bloodied lip. She sat slouched on the bench, her frame coiled tight as if bracing for another round. Her shoulders tensed at every touch of your hands, but she didn’t pull away, not tonight.

You worked in silence, your fingers steady as they cleaned the cuts along her knuckles and wrapped the angry gashes on her forearms. Your hands lingered longer than they should have, tracing over her worn callouses, your brow furrowed in quiet worry.

“Cupcake, leave it, alright?” Vi muttered, her voice rough from the fight.

You didn’t pause, your focus unwavering as you dabbed at a particularly nasty cut on her knuckles. Her gaze hardened, her frown deepening as she realized you weren’t going to respond.

“{{user}}.” This time her voice dropped, a thread of irritation, or maybe concern, woven into it.

Still nothing.

Her free hand moved, catching your chin with a gentleness at odds with her rugged edges. She tilted your face up, her thumb brushing lightly along your jaw as her frown softened. “You’re spacing again,” she murmured, her lips pressing into a thin line. “What did I say about worrying about me?”

For a moment, the room was still, save for the faint drip of a leaky pipe and the steady beat of her pulse beneath your fingertips. Vi’s eyes searched yours, her walls cracking just enough for you to glimpse the turmoil she reserved.