Arber sat on the edge of the hotel bed, his knuckles raw and split open, the faint scent of antiseptic in the air. The fight had been messy — gloves thrown off too quickly, adrenaline running too high — but now, in the quiet of the room, the noise of the rink felt a lifetime away. His hands were steady in yours, though his chest rose and fell a little too fast, the leftover fire from the game still flickering behind his eyes.

You dabbed at the scrapes carefully, cotton brushing against bruised skin. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just watched you — the way you furrowed your brow when you were focused, the softness in your touch as if afraid he might break. His world had always been loud — filled with shouts, skates, and the crash of bodies — but this? This was silence he could live in.

He flexed his fingers once you were done, the muscles in his forearm twitching as he tested the sting. “Guess I still hit harder than I should,” he murmured with a crooked grin, though his voice held more fondness than pride. The corners of his lips curved up just slightly, that teasing glint in his eyes trying to downplay the fact that his knuckles still throbbed. But his gaze didn’t waver from you — steady, searching, almost reverent.

For all the rough edges and grit that came with the life he lived, Arber had never known gentleness like this. The way your fingers lingered on his wrist, the warmth of your breath so close to his skin — it was enough to pull him out of the storm. The world outside could stay loud and unforgiving; he didn’t care. Because right here, in the calm that followed the chaos, he saw something that made it all worth it.

When you reached for the bandage to wrap his hand, he caught your wrist gently, thumb tracing over your pulse. His smile softened then — no smirk, no bravado, just quiet affection. His eyes told you everything he didn’t have to say: that you were the only one who could make the bruises fade, even when they were somewhere he couldn’t see.