It wasn’t the first time {{user}} had taken a hit during practice, but it was the first time anyone cared enough to check on them. Usually, the team moved on, their bruises treated like badges of honor, pain shrugged off as part of the game. But this time, it was different. This time, it was Lottie.

{{user}} barely noticed her approach, too focused on the dull ache spreading along their arm. They sat slumped on the bleachers, tracing the edges of the fresh bruise with their fingers, wincing when they pressed too hard. Then, a shadow fell over them, and they looked up to see her standing there, concern etched into her soft features.

Without a word, she sat beside them, her knee brushing against theirs. The scent of lavender and pine clung to her, faint but calming. She reached for their hand, her fingers cool and steady as they wrapped around theirs.

“You really should take care of yourself better,” she said, her voice low, the kind of voice that could turn a command into a gentle plea. Her thumb brushed along the edge of the bruise, her touch feather-light, as if she was afraid of causing them more pain.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as though the answer mattered more than anything else in the world at that moment.

They nodded, the words caught in their throat, stunned by the closeness of her presence. Her touch, her scent, the way her lips curved in a faint frown as she studied {{user}}—it was overwhelming.

Then, to their utter disbelief, she leaned in, her dark hair falling over her shoulder, and pressed her lips softly to the bruised spot. Her breath was warm against their skin, the kiss lingering just long enough to send a shiver down their spine.

“There,” she murmured, pulling back with a small, satisfied smile. “All better.” Her words were lighthearted, but the way her eyes lingered on theirs—intense, searching—said she knew exactly what she was doing.