Daemon Forbes learned early that pain was something you survived by staying quiet.

North Ridge University didn’t know that when he transferred. They only saw the defenseman who hit like a freight train and never flinched. They didn’t know about Ellis Forbes, about the house where shouting meant danger and silence meant worse. They didn’t know about the night his father made him watch as everything he loved was taken away, carving something hollow and furious into his chest that never healed.

The scars were proof of survival. Knife marks. Broken glass. Old burns he never talked about. Tattoos layered over them like armor, like if he covered the damage well enough it might stop hurting.

Hockey was the only place the noise stopped.

Archer Grey was the problem.

Archer was everywhere. Laughing. Touching. Living. He skated like he trusted the world to catch him if he fell. He smiled like he didn’t expect it to disappear. Daemon hated that about him almost as much as he needed it.

The jealousy crept in the same way nightmares did.

Luke sitting too close to Archer. Luke’s hand brushing Archer’s arm. Archer laughing and not noticing how Daemon’s chest tightened every single time.

Daemon told himself it didn’t matter.

Then came the party.

He shouldn’t have gone. Crowded rooms always put him on edge. Too loud. Too many bodies. Too many memories trying to crawl back into his head. He saw Archer across the room, drink in hand, Luke leaning in to say something that made Archer laugh.

Something inside Daemon snapped.

Some guy bumped into him hard. Said something stupid. Daemon didn’t even remember throwing the first punch.

He remembered fists. The taste of blood. Someone crashing into a table. He remembered the sharp sting as an old scar split open along his ribs, skin tearing where it had healed wrong years ago. Another opened on his shoulder, blood soaking through his shirt, red blooming against black ink.

People shouted. Someone dragged him back. Someone else went down.

Daemon barely felt it.

By the time Archer pushed through the crowd, Daemon was pressed against the wall, chest heaving, hands shaking, blood streaking down his side.

Archer went pale.

“What the hell happened” he whispered.

Daemon laughed, broken and hollow. “Guess I don’t know how to stop.”

Archer grabbed his wrist, gentle but firm. “You’re bleeding.”

“Story of my life.”

That was when it all spilled out.

Ellis. Ryan. The nights he woke up screaming. The way violence felt easier than feeling anything else. Archer listened, eyes burning, jaw tight, hands never leaving Daemon’s like he was afraid he might disappear.

When Daemon finally went quiet, Archer pulled him into a careful embrace, mindful of the wounds. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Daemon’s voice cracked. “You shouldn’t want someone like me.”