Shit, that’s going to leave a nasty bruise

You sat on a bench outside of the sparring gym, one hand gingerly prodding at the newly forming bruise on your stomach. No broken ribs, thankfully, but the rider from Second Squad didn’t hold back on the mat. It was hard to determine what was worse, the sting of defeat or the sting of the split in your bottom lip when you ran your tongue over it.

The door to the gym creaked open but you turned your head down, not wanting to face whoever might come through the doors when you were still wallowing in defeat.

A figure knelt on the marble floor in front of you, and you looked up to meet the honey-gold eyes of the rider who’d just beaten you. You barely parted your lips to speak before he cut in.

“Before you ask, I didn’t come to gloat,” Ridoc held out a chunk of ice wrapped haphazardly in a piece of cloth. “I’ll wait until the swelling on your face goes down a little.” His smile was warm and sincere as he pressed the makeshift ice pack into your palms. “I’m sorry if I was a little too hard on you back there. Please ice that welt before I start to feel guilty.”