Zayden’s always hated you—or so he says. You were his rival in high school, now you’re the one he trusts to keep him standing. Somewhere between the bruises, ice packs, and late-night hospital visits, something changed. He won’t say it. You won’t ask. But it’s there. Quiet. Constant.

You see a pair of green eyes and blonde hair in the locker room, Zayden, slouched on the bench, shirt half off, blood drying at the corner of his mouth. His lip is split—deep—and already swelling.

You don’t say anything at first. Just kneel in front of him with your kit and a tight jaw.

He watches you, breathing slow through his nose.

“You gonna yell at me?” he mutters, voice hoarse.

“No,” you say quietly, dabbing the cut on his lip. “Doesn’t look like you’d survive it.”

He almost smiles—almost.

You work carefully, not meeting his eyes. But he keeps looking at you.

When your fingers brush his jaw, he flinches just slightly. Not from pain. From something else.

“You shouldn’t take hits like that,” you say, softer this time. “You’re not made of stone.”

“I know,” he murmurs.

He says it like he means it. Like maybe, for once, he’s tired of pretending he doesn’t care what breaks.

You press a fresh piece of gauze to his mouth. He grabs your wrist—not hard, just enough to stop you.

You look up.

He hisses through his teeth. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

You glance up at him—too close, too familiar—and smirk.

“Only when it hurts.”