The arena is loud in that feral, vibrating way it gets when a Chain Match turns ugly. Steel rattles. Flesh splits. You’re ringside, not as a fan exactly. You’re his friend. His training partner. His constant. You’ve seen him hurt before. You’ve helped him tape wrists, stretch sore shoulders, laugh off bruises that would make most people quit.

So this should feel normal.

It doesn’t.

The chain drags across the mat as he pulls himself up, blood streaked across his face, chest heaving. Every strike lands heavier than it should in your chest. Your stomach twists when he grimaces, when he smirks through the pain, when he refuses to stay down like pain is just another opponent he already understands.

You tell yourself it’s concern. It has to be. You’re just wired a little tight tonight. That’s all.

But when he finally wins, when the bell rings and he stands there wrecked and victorious, chain still hanging from his hand, your thoughts drift somewhere unfamiliar. Too slow. Too close. You don’t like how aware you suddenly are of him. Of the blood. Of the way he looks when he’s survived something brutal.

You look away before anyone can read your face.

Backstage smells like sweat and antiseptic. He’s already in the locker room when you slip inside, sitting on the bench, towel thrown over his shoulders, skin still flushed from adrenaline. He looks up when you enter and gives you that familiar half-smile. The one that usually settles you.

It doesn’t.

You grab the med kit like muscle memory, kneeling in front of him without thinking. Your hands know what to do. Clean. Press. Tape. They’ve done this a hundred times. But tonight your fingers hesitate, your breath catches, and you hate that he notices.

You stutter when you tell him to hold still. Your hands shake when you dab at an open cut along his brow. You can feel how close you are. Too close. Closer than usual. Your heart is beating loud enough you’re convinced he can hear it.

He watches you quietly, something thoughtful in his eyes. Not teasing. Not cocky. Just… attentive.

You don’t know when things shifted. Only that they did. And now you’re stuck in the space between what you’ve always been to each other and whatever this new, dangerous awareness is.

He tilts his head slightly as you fumble with the gauze, voice calm but curious. “You’re shaking,” he says softly. “That’s new.”