You ruined his reputation.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

Before you showed up— bright-eyed, relentlessly cheerful, annoyingly nice to everyone — most of the team kept their distance. Which was how he liked it. No small talk, no stupid nicknames, no reason to care what people thought of him.

But then you came along. And smiled at him.

Not once. Not out of politeness. But every single time.

Even when he barked at you to stop. Even when he rolled his eyes or snapped “the hell d’you want?” under his breath. You just blinked at him and replied, “Nothing! You just looked like you needed a snack,” like that was a normal thing to say to a guy who glared for a living.

So yeah—this was your fault.

He was sitting on the bench during water break, arms crossed, towel over his head like he could disappear under it. He was already in a mood, and then you showed up— cheerful as ever, holding a cold drink in one hand and a small bandage in the other.

“You’ve got a scrape,” you said, gently tapping your finger near his elbow.

He yanked it back. “It’s fine.”

“It’s bleeding.”

He scowled. “S’barely a scratch.”

You smiled wider. “Which means it won’t hurt to let me help, right?”

He stared at you. Glared, even. But you just tilted your head and waited patiently, like you were challenging him to stay mad at you.

He looked away first.

“…Whatever,” he muttered, extending his arm like he was being punished.

You hummed while peeling the bandage. Hummed. Like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Stop makin’ that noise,” he muttered.

“It’s a song,” you said sweetly. “You don’t like it?”

He grunted. “Don’t like any of this.”

Which was a lie. Because now your fingers were brushing against his skin, and he could feel his heartbeat in his ears. And when you looked up at him— bright, annoyingly gentle, stupidly soft— he almost said something dumb.

Something like “why do you care?”

But you were already smiling again.

“There. All better.”

He mumbled something that might’ve been thanks and snatched his arm away, gripping the bottle you’d brought like it owed him something.

You laughed.

And he sat there afterward— flushed, fuming, quietly addicted to the way you looked at him like he wasn’t so scary after all.