I had all & then most of you.

Heat radiates up from the pan over your wrist as you cook your breakfast, stirring mindlessly as you lose yourself in thought. The rattle of your phone against the counter interrupts you. Turning the stove on low you flip your phone over from its downward position to see Levi’s contact illuminating the screen. Immediately your chest tightens up. It’s only been two days since you last spoke to him. You let it ring for a few seconds before slowly sliding your thumb across the screen to answer. 

“Hello?” You hold your breath, hoping he doesn’t notice. 

“Morning,” Levi starts, his tone causing your nerves to fray more than they already were. “I reviewed everything you sent over and drew up a recovery plan. If possible, I’d like to go over it in person.” It’s still overwhelming to know just who it is you’re talking to.

“Okay sure.. When?” You ask. 

“Today?” 

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Moving things along this quickly isn’t exactly what you expected to happen. “Yeah, I can make it in today.” You confirm. 

“Eleven work for you?” He asks. 

You glance over at the clock on the stove, seeing you had more than enough time to get ready “Perfect.” 

“Alright. Sina training center, left wing. My office is on the second floor. I’ll text you the address. See you then.” He hangs up and seconds later your phone buzzes with the address as promised. 

***

Sina Training Center is on the opposite side of town from the arena you trained at for Worlds. Having lived in this city for less than a year you’ve only ever seen it in passing. When you finally find a place to park it’s quite the walk before you make it inside, and when you do you’re shocked by the size of this place. It’s a huge lobby, different areas lead you to sport specific sections of the building. 

You head left and follow the signs that direct you towards the ice sports wing. On your way to the elevator you pass by the large window. Ice is on full display through this window, causing your stomach to tighten. You stop and observe as three girls train with their respective coaches on the ice. An ache grows in your chest as you watch them. 

When you step off the elevator onto the second floor and make your way into the waiting room, there’s a man standing in front of the door that leads to the offices looking down at an iPad. You walk up with the intention of politely getting past him, but when he looks up to face you your heart stops.

That scar is unmistakable. A clean cut that trailed from above his eyebrow all the way down through his lip. Small dots on either side from the stitches even after all this time, and a white glaze over his right eye. Even so, the man in front of you was breathtaking. It was definitely him. 

“Wouldn’t have made it very far,” he breaks the silence causing you to snap out of it, and you definitely feel like an ass for staring. 

“I’m sorry?” 

He quickly shifts to the left of the door revealing a key card scanner, “and I never mentioned which office was mine.” He sounds just like he did on the phone, so.. abstruse? If this wasn’t a professional setting you’d believe he already hated you.

 “Levi.” He states, extending his hand out for you to shake. You can’t help but stare. You’re standing in front of one of the most unrivaled skaters, even the accident couldn’t take that title from him. 

“Nice to meet you.” You finally muster up. He’s silent for a moment, seemingly observing you.  

“Likewise.” He finally says before looking back down and wrapping up whatever it was he was doing on the iPad. He holds it at his hip and digs through his pocket, pulling out a blue lanyard with the training center's logo lined across it, at the end hangs a small white card. “This is yours.” He says. You grab it from him and take a look. It’s a key card with a barcode and your name printed on it. “This will get you into any area designated for skaters, and past this door to my office.” You swear you can hear his voice lift at the second half of that sentence. “Follow me.” You nod as he leads you back into the elevator. Once you’re on the main floor again he points to the rink you passed on your way in. 

“That's the common rink, used for general training and classes.” He explains, leading you in the opposite direction down the hall and stopping at a pair of double doors. He presses his key card against the reader on the wall and quickly walks in as they open. When you follow in behind him, you’re stunned to see another large common area lined with equipment shops and a small snack bar section. To the right are two more ice rinks, one immediately to the right of the door you came in and the other’s entrance on the far wall straight across. “Those are the specialty rinks, I call them the rehab rinks.'' He starts, heading in that direction. “They both serve the same purpose though, one is generally used for the hockey team to train off-season. Eventually, we’ll be over there in the third one.” He gestures for you to follow him inside, scanning his card at the entrance. Your breathing nearly seizes. This is the closest you’ve been to the ice since February. 

“It’s our smallest rink. Reserved specifically for those recovering from injury who need a less congested area to work in.” He walks the edge of the boards with you in tow, eyes glued to the ice the entire time. “Locker rooms.” He says. You almost ran straight into him not noticing he had stopped to point them out. 

Circling back and crossing the large common area with you, he scans his key again. “This is the gym, and past that door is the PT area.” he points past another set of locker rooms. You’re already so overwhelmed, even for you this entire building was so high profile. You felt out of place. “For the next few weeks, we’ll be spending most of our time here.” 

You're so sick of physical therapy and just want to be back on the ice already.

As the two of you walk back out towards the elevators to get to his office, he looks over to you. “Do not use any facility without me there with you for now.” He says, and you can tell he’s serious.

***

Levi pulls a folder from his desk as you sit across from him. “Your current recovery plan is nauseating.” He says bluntly, dropping the folder onto the desk. 

You’re stunned by the quick change in his tone. “Excuse me?” 

“First of all, they set you up for failure before you even left the hospital.” He starts, pulling out printed copies of everything you sent over from the folder. “Ice? Really? Are we still living in the stone ages?” He scoffs “You should have been doing small movements for that ankle since day one, and I don’t see any recommendations here for that.” 

“There wasn’t..” You confirm, eyes so wide they could fall out of your skull. It was hard to believe how involved with your recovery he was, not expecting him to review your progress from day one. You figured he would just pick up along with where you already were. 

“Of course, and you weren’t referred to the proper resources. Standard physical therapy would never have gotten you back on that ice. It’s up to you but I think you’d do better full time here.” He says, shaking his head. “Christ, did your coach do literally anything for you?” 

You wince at the mention of Coach Tarasov, having ghosted her after she drove you home from the hospital. You haven’t reached out since, positive it’s too late now. Getting a new coach was just another thing you’d have to do to get yourself back up. “I didn’t really give her the chance to..” 

Levi hummed in response. “You moved on from basic balance too fast, that’s why you’re struggling so badly now. Balance is the most important part of this, you’re a figure skater. We’ll start our assessments there.” 

“I don’t have the time to start over.” You reply immediately. 

“Do you think you’ll have time when this happens again because you re-injured yourself?” He asks flatly and the question sinks deep. “You won’t, and we’re not starting over. I’m assessing where we are now.” 

We. 

“Okay.. you’re right.” You exhale and let yourself lean back into the chair. 

“I know I am.” He pulls all of the pages back together and slips them back inside your folder. “Three days a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, seven to eight?” He asks as if it were a question. 

“Yes, that works.” You affirm. This was your only option and you had a feeling he knew that too.

He nods and pulls another packet out, sliding it towards you. “Review and sign these.” He says. Flipping through it you recognise it’s the plan he just went over with you, and you sign when prompted. He reaches his hand beside his computer and slides you another white card. “For the parking garage.” 

*** 

The next day you park in the garage and it’s a much easier walk inside, considering it happens to be attached to the skating wing of the training center. You scan your way in and head through the gym, and into the physical therapy room once you throw your stuff into a locker. 

When you walk into the room you see Levi talking to what you assume to be another employee. He’s tall, muscular, blond. It looks like he’s actually enjoying their conversation. The discussion seems to stop when Levi’s eyes find you, and he gestures for you to follow him. Racing to catch up with him, you see the man eye the both of you before turning to leave. 

“Who's that?” Curiosity gets the best of you. 

“Erwin, he’s a personal trainer in another wing.” Levi responds without delay. “Sometimes comes and bothers me between appointments.” As harsh as that sounded, you could tell it came from a place of adoration.

Levi has you sit down after taking your shoes off. You’ve been here before, it’s the same place you got assessments done the first time. You watch as he kneels down and sets the tablet beside him on the mat, gently pressing his thumbs into the front of your ankle and asking you to move your foot in several directions. He feels like a different person in this room than he was in the office or on the phone. He’s gentle and precise, jotting down notes in between every test he does, and making sure you’re comfortable. He's way more involved than your last therapist and you haven’t even gotten past the assessment. 

“Let’s try something.” Getting back onto his feet, he walks across the room and grabs an object from the ground. You immediately recognize it as a balance board. It’s a flat square board with a rounded bottom. He places it down on the floor and gestures you over. “Go ahead and step up here.” He reaches his hand out for you to grab. You nervously place your hand in his and step onto the board with your left foot, relying on Levi to support you while you find your balance. 

“Great.” He encourages, his tone setting off tiny flutters in your stomach as you attempt to balance yourself. He takes a small step back, seamlessly supporting the weight you’re pushing onto his hand. “I’m going to let go, see how you do here.” He says and waits for you to center yourself before slowly pulling away. He continues to hold his hands out in front of you, palms facing up so you can hover yours above incase you need help with balancing. 

Immediately after he retracts his hand your ankle shakes, a reminder of just how far behind you are. A few seconds later discomfort takes over, sending a sting up the inside of your leg. You let your fingertips fall onto his, your eye twitches as you try to avoid relying on him for balance. 

“How does that feel?” 

“It kind of hurts.”

“Stop.” He grabs your hand and helps you back down off the board. “Then we aren’t there yet.” He comments, jotting the notes down quickly. 

You let out a sigh, this is what you meant when you said you couldn’t afford to start over. “I should be on the board by now.” You think out loud. 

“Not if it hurts.” He quips, letting the iPad rest against his hip from the strap hanging off his shoulder. “If you can’t balance on that board you won’t be able to balance on a blade.” 

“I’ve been in therapy for weeks,” your thoughts quickly spiral, having the determination to recover means nothing if your body works so hard against you. “If I can’t get back on the ice by-“ 

“I’ll get you back on the ice.” 

Your thoughts lapse. The way he said it with such certainty makes you want to believe him that much more. 

“Look, I told you your last program was shit,” he sounds like he’s trying to be comforting “it’s not going to happen overnight, and definitely not with that attitude.” 

You don’t know how to respond to that. You know he’s right. Again. 

Levi leads you to the center of the room for mobility stretches, another exercise you’re more than familiar with. He watches as you shift your weight onto your right leg and tip your left foot outward, it doesn’t hurt but the pull is uncomfortable. You inhale harshly through your nose, pushing further against the strain. 

“Don’t force it.” Levi instructs, keeping a close eye on your form. 

You switch from stretching to the side to stretching your ankle forward. After going back and forth between the two for about 5 minutes Levi stops you again, moving on to the stationary board for heel lifts. You step up and let your heels hang off the back of the board, every raise has your ankle shaking. You watch Levi in the mirror in front of you, he has a peculiar look on his face. He slowly kneels down behind you to watch closely as you continue to rise up and down on the board. 

“Stop, get down.” Levi says firmly.

You oblige, immediately stepping back down onto the padded floor. Levi picks up the tablet and starts quickly swiping across the screen, eyebrows raised and lips pressed in a flat line. 

“Your old therapist,” he starts, still quickly filing through pages on the iPad, “did they massage that ankle.” 

“No.” You confirm his suspicions. 

“‘Course they didn’t.” He mumbles, rolling his eyes as he lets the iPad fall back down against his side. “It’s stiff.” He’s already walking back toward the tables.

You follow behind him nervously, sitting up on the table when prompted. You watch as he methodically washes his hands in a nearby sink. When he comes back he tells you to lay back. He stands at the end of the table, gently bending your foot toward him. You chew the inside of your lip as he slips his hand under your heel, pressing his thumb gently behind your ankle bone and guiding the pressure up. Your breath catches at the slight discomfort but it's slowly replaced by a sense of relief. He continues in that same upward direction, adding a gentle circular motion after a few moments. You turn your head away, fidgeting with your shirt as your heart rate seems to accelerate. 

You aren't sure what it is about him. From the moment you knew you’d be working with him it’s all you could think about. At first you chalked it up to admiration. Maybe it was the way he cared, even underneath all the dry conversation and formalities you could tell. Or maybe it’s the way he carries himself. Could be that he’s stunning, like a sunset that perfectly contrasts a clear blue sky. Even now, when he's right in front of you he takes up your mind. Just when you entertain it, imagine his hand sliding up your leg–

“Let’s try again.” His voice startles you out of your thoughts. 

You stand back on the board and Levi kneels down again. You lift up once more and your eyes widen slightly. Not only has the discomfort decreased but your ankle doesn’t shake as bad. It’s not perfect, you still feel the tightness and resistance. That last thing you expected was to make progress during your first session with him. You snap your attention to him, back on the tablet adding data. The corner of his lip upturned in a subtle smirk like he just found the last missing piece of an unfinished puzzle. 

“It was healing stiff.” He comments, switching you to another exercise. “You’re lucky we caught it when we did.” 

“It’s reversible?” You ask, but it comes out as more of a plea. 

“It is.” he confirms. You leave the session that day with a detailed print out of exercises from Levi, instructed to do them in the afternoon of your session days and twice a day otherwise. 

That night as you do them, his voice echoes in your thoughts 

I’ll get you back on the ice.

***

From that point on, your sessions start with a fifteen minute meticulous ankle massage. By the end of the first two weeks you can hold your balance on one foot for thirty seconds with minimal shaking.

Throughout your third week you make miraculous progress. You’re up to forty five seconds of balance on one foot, and painless single heel lifts off the floor and the stationary balance board. 

The last 10 minutes of your Friday session Levi has you balance on one foot and places a tennis ball down directly in front of you. 

“Pick it up.” 

You nod, extending your leg behind you as you slowly bend your knee. Once you have the ball in your hand you slowly rise back up, placing it back in Levi’s hand. He shifts over, setting the ball down to your right. Again, you lower yourself down and back up on one foot with ease. One last time he sets the ball down to your left. When you drop it back in his hand you bring your elevated foot back down to stay stable. He lets out a satisfied huff and walks away, returning with the balance board from a few weeks back and drops it down. He helps you up and this time you pull away from him, quick to neutralize your weight. You make it look easy now.

“Not bad.” His tone sounds indifferent but he has that same look in his eyes, he has it every time you hit a milestone. 

Like every win is yours to share.

On your way out, Levi stops to face you. He opens his mouth to say something but quickly closes it again, seeming to second guess himself. “See you next week.” 

Taglist: @amywritesthings @littlerequiem @humanitys-strongest-bamf @hideandgopeep 

You catch a full look at him from over your shoulder.

He is a proverbial giant compared to the small shed. You’ve never seen anyone his size, much less someone who is likely around your age, but all you really notice is how sunken his face looks. His complexion is sallow, highlighted by the soft light silver color of the hair flopping over his squinting eyes.

You also notice that he’s shirtless with a bright red jacket spread out beneath him, wearing only boots and baggy pants. Looking away quickly, you sprint toward the back door to the house, trouncing through the high grass and the garden until you skid to a stop in the kitchen. Opening the cabinet you know holds the first aid kit, you rush back out the door and close it tightly, hoping nobody’s home to be nosy.

Certain you aren’t being followed, you run back to the shed, out of breath by the time you reach it, practically falling to your knees at his side.

Dropping the kit on the ground, you flip it open and scan the contents for antiseptic ointment, digging through novelty bandages and gauze pads.

“Where are you injured?” you ask, attention averted from him so you don’t notice his scowling.

“I told you not to come back.”

Shaking your head, you finally turn to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“Well, I did,” you start, nodding toward his arm.

“Show me where you’re hurt, please.”

Unenthusiastically, he holds his arm close to his body.

You hum to yourself, digging through your mental bag of tricks to see if you can find a way to soften him even slightly, settling on small talk.

“What’s your name?”

Scoffing, he looks down at you. “Why do you care?”

Despite the bad attitude, he finally extends his arm, eyes remaining narrowed.

“You don’t have to be rude,” you mutter under your breath, pushing the first aid kit aside a tad more forcefully than necessary until you remember he’s hurt and probably has far more reason to be irritable than you.

With a sharp exhale, you lean toward his extended arm, brows furrowing when you realize this is a gouge too deep to simply bandage.

“I’m going to have to, uh, stitch that,” you point at his arm, miming the motion of putting thread through a needle with your hands. “Let me go inside and grab my sewing kit.”

“Don’t come back this time.”

Temper flaring, you ball your fists and lean toward him.

“Why don’t you just lay there and be quiet? I don’t know what your problem is, I’m only trying to help!”

Rising to your feet, you turn on your heel and stomp toward the open door. The stranger watches your movements, still unsure if you’re friend or foe, breathing heavier as the pain in his arm surges through his body.

This situation is so fucked up.

He can heal himself when he isn’t weak from hunger and lack of sleep. Unfortunately, that’s the exact state he’s in, leaving him to bleed alone and hope his wound doesn’t get infected.

Sighing, he lies back down, lifting his good arm to cover his eyes.

He can handle this on his own if he just gets a little crafty and rests for just a little longer, like he was before you so rudely woke him up with your little flashlight act.

Recalling how he ended up here, he wonders if the demon he was fighting two days ago is still around. Suddenly more alert than ever, he removes his arm from his eyes and sits up, grateful that the kind of beast that thing was only tends to lurk at night.

The sound of your footsteps alert him and he sits halfway up, still covering his sensitive eyes to hide them from the sun.

“Okay, back.”

Paying no mind to his frustrated grunt, you find yourself on your knees beside him once more, unwinding the heaviest thread you could find in your kit while you place the largest needle in your collection between your teeth.

“Since nothing I says convinces you, do what you’re here for and leave me alone.”

Shrugging, you reach for the needle to thread it.

“Fine.”

You agreed far too easily to mean it. Even if he barely knows you, it’s obvious that you don’t take instruction well.

“Lay back and give me your arm,” you order now that the needle is threaded, holding your free hand out.

The young man obliges, letting you manipulate the positioning until his arm is across your lap, giving you a clear view of what you’re working with. You grimace looking at the red flesh and the dried blood, stomach turning when you envision how badly infected this could get without attention.

Reaching around the ground, you find the bottle of antiseptic you carried back and pop the lid open with your thumb, pouring it over the sizable gash.

He hisses in response, kicking his booted feet like a child.

“That hurts!”

You look up at him through your eyelashes, mouth set in an unimpressed line. “You look like you can handle it.”

Just how old is this guy? He looks like he’s your age, maybe a bit older, but he acts like he’s a surly middle schooler. His dramatics continue for only a few minutes more, ceasing when you hold the needle inches away from his skin.

It’s apparent to him that you’re anxious, shoulders hunched and eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you okay?”

You hum an affirmative response, lowering the needle and poking it through his skin. It hurts less than he expected, the poke lasting only a second. He wouldn’t have reacted anyway, using most of his energy on his previous display.

His eyes watch you drag the needle from one side of his wound to the other, your fingertips reminding him what he witnessed when he first woke up.

“What were you doing earlier?”

You tilt your head to the side, keeping your eyes where they need to be to get this done.

“What do you mean?”

“With your fingers, the light woke me up.”

“Oh, uh,” you start awkwardly, trying to keep your attention on the needle you’re currently pulling through the separated flaps of his skin. “Shoot, I don’t know if I’m doing this right.”

“First time?”

You shrug. “Human flesh is different from a needlepoint canvas.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he presses, hissing as a particularly tender spot has thread that isn’t appropriate for this task dragged across it.

“Yes I did,” you argue back, eyes narrowing as you lean in closer to inspect how poor of a job you’re doing.

“Not that one smart ass, the other one.”

“You have absolutely no manners, did you know that?”

“And you have too many of them,” he argues, pointing to his arm. “Or maybe not enough considering you’re performing surgery on a guy you don’t even know.”

He has a point so you don’t argue, aware of just how much trouble you’d be in if one of your grandparents or siblings were to stumble upon this little scenario.

“I don’t know what I was doing. It’s just this thing that happens when I focus really hard and, ugh,” you cut yourself off.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Oh but it does. Even through the haze of pain, you’ve piqued his interest for the moment.

“Keep talking, it hurts less when you do.”

Your face softens slightly even if you don’t look his way, comforted by the idea that you have comforted him even a little bit.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

He shrugs, taking a deep breath. “Whatever you want.”

Shifting where you sit with your legs tucked beneath you, your mind rushes to pick something you think he’d be interested in. He probably wouldn’t care about the book you’re reading nor the song you were listening to when you found him. You don’t really know how to describe the little energy situation so you pick what you know best.

“Why did the cookie go to the hospital?”

Groaning, he lays back, keeping his arm in your lap.

“Don’t say whatever you’re about to say next.”

“He was feeling crummy,” you proceed regardless, giggling mostly at yourself upon completion.

“I said talk, not tell me the worst joke on earth.”

You shrug flippantly which masks your surprise at how quickly you’ve managed to close up the wound, albeit poorly. The tools are wrong and your knowledge is limited to stitching bunnies and polite sayings on canvases for your grandmother to frame but you are a little bit impressed regardless.

“I’m done.”

The young man sits up halfway to inspect your work, eyes flitting from his arm to your face. It catches him off guard to get a good look at you, a bit surprised that you’re as cute as you are considering the attitude you keep giving him.

He supposes an attitude like that is something only a cute girl can get away with and you did decide to help him, the pain in his arm stinging but now the wound is clean and closed.

“My name’s Dante,” he finally divulges, sitting all the way up and looking down at you.

You smile at him, patting his arm that he has yet to withdraw.

“Well thank you for letting me help you.”

He nods, an awkward silence falling until you decide to try your luck and see how much more information you can get out of him.

“How did you end up here?”

Sighing, he takes a moment to decide how much of the truth to tell you. He was fighting a demon on a well paying job, bit off more than he could chew on his own, stumbled around for several miles and decided to hide inside the first abandoned structure he could find.

“I, uh…was in a fight not too far from here and needed to find a place to recover.”

You nod, hand still on his arm.

“This used to be my grandfather’s workshop before he got too busy to keep woodworking, I usually come out here to be by myself so it surprised me to find you.”

“Do you live with your grandparents?”

“Yeah, my parents sort of just didn’t want to do the whole mom and dad thing so they brought us to my mom’s parents to handle. I’ve been here since I was five.”

That’s a mere few years younger than he was when he lost his own family. He frowns, shifting uncomfortably.

“Sorry.”

You shrug.

“It’s okay, it happened and I can’t change it. Me and my sisters do just fine here even if the expectations are high but you don’t really want to hear about all that.”

On the contrary, he sort of thinks that he might, leaning in closer.

“You can keep talking if you want.”

Shaking your head, you look up at him nervously.

“Do you have anywhere to go? I can have my grandpa drive you there when he gets home tonight.”

Dante shrugs, suddenly feeling awkward. “Uh, not really but don’t worry about it.”

You tilt your head to the side curiously, eyeing him up and down.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” he responds flatly.

Same as you. Good to know.

“Can I at least convince you to come inside and eat?”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he admits, nervous and armed with the knowledge that the demon he was hunting may still be active in the area.

“You won’t heal if you don’t eat.”

That stubborn streak you presented earlier flashes itself once again. You continue to look up at him, that oh-so-cute face softening his resolve with each bat of your lashes.

Cute girls are the worst thing in the world.

With a groan, he withdraws his arm from your lap and crosses it awkwardly over his bare chest.

“Fine,” he acquiesces. “One meal.”

The smile that crosses your face when you get your way is as sweet as any you’ve ever seen. He wonders how many times you’ve ever truly been meaningfully told no and if he’s just another in a long line of cute girl victims.

-

You left him to sleep in the shed until a little after sunset, returning with a t-shirt that’s slightly too small for him of unknown origin and to drag him in through the back doors of the house while demanding he take his shoes off at the door.

He, of course, obliged you. It’s the least he can do now with all you’ve done for him today. Following you obediently, the two of you walk in tandem until you fully enter the kitchen as a pair.

You wave your hand in his direction while the people he can obviously tell are your grandparents and your two sisters all turn to look at him.

“This is my friend Dante. Is it alright if he joins us for dinner tonight?”

If looks could kill, the young man would certainly have dropped dead by now thanks to the venomous expression on your grandfather’s face. He’s no stranger to this type of reaction, drawing ire from most of the adults he encounters based off of his rough edges yet the scorn in this expression is something different.

It’s as if the man can tell that Dante has a budding crush on his precious granddaughter.

“Where did you meet him?” he asks, voice practically dripping with disappointment.

You refuse to answer.

“Can he stay for dinner?”

Your grandmother intervenes, stepping away from her husband to approach the young man standing next to you, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder even if he flinches when she does. Her eyes travel from his face to his arm and widen when she spots the gash, deciding to mention it later to diffuse the encounter.

“Of course, your friends are always welcome here,” she insists, offering him a smile similar to your own. “Come on dear, why don’t I show you the bathroom so you can wash up?”

Your eyes don’t move from your grandfather even as your newfound friend is escorted into the long hallway by your grandmother.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dante. Don’t mind him, he’s just overprotective of her. She’s his pride and joy and a very good girl.”

If he reads too much into the implication of the woman’s words, he may go crazy so he simply nods and remembers that he does have manners.

“Thank you, I’m sorry for the short notice.”

She once again smiles at him as they arrive in front of the hall bathroom. Reaching for the handle, she swings the door open.

“It’s not a problem at all. The dining room is right over,” she points to a room adjacent to the hall, across from the bathroom. “There. We’ll be waiting whenever you’re done.”

-

It’s after the meal when he stands outside of the heavy oak door of your grandfather’s study, his hand gripping the opposite injured forearm while overhearing what is clearly an argument between yourself and the man who is raising you.

“He has nowhere to go!”

Your stubbornness is not reserved only for Dante, something he’s strangely amused to discover.

“Lower your voice,” your grandfather responds.

“No! I do everything you ask me to, all I want is this one thing and you won’t even budge a little. He’s hurt, he’s hungry. He needs a shower, he stinks!”

Dante sniffs himself hearing your elevated exchange, nose wrinkling slightly when his scent hits. So he does stink. And he’s tired and he’s hungry and he’s entirely alone in the world. He really doesn’t wanna stay but he can’t deny the allure of a bed and a hot shower, the luxury of a hot and nutritious meal perhaps spoiling him enough he wants to be further indulged.

“One night.”

You stomp your foot audibly and he imagines your eyebrows furrowed, your narrow eyed glare.

“Did you see that thing on his arm? That’s not going to heal in one night.”

Looking down at the angry, red, poorly stitched gash he unfortunately has to agree. He’s already been dealing with the pain for a couple of days and could deal with it for longer.

“Then we’ll take him to the hospital tomorrow.”

“Grandpa, no! He doesn’t need that, he just needs to stay here for a few days at least,” you retort quickly.

Dante sighs. He doesn’t want that either considering what could possibly still be lurking even if it may be for the best if he sticks around the area to take the thing out.

Maybe that’s what he’ll do. Stay here long enough to stake out, collect the demonic bastard's head and then go collect his bounty money. You’ll be a distant memory before he knows it.

“One night.”

“Three nights,” you argue.

“One.”

He hears you sniffle through the door, your voice cracking when you speak.

“Please,” you beg, sniffling again. “I don’t ask for anything and he’s hurt so bad. I promise I’ll take some extra courses or do some extra work or whatever you want me to but he needs to stay here.”

It has been a very long time since Dante has had someone fight for him this hard.

He’s made friends throughout his life though they’ve been fleeting and he’s mostly only ever managed to get them hurt as a result of their association. Even Nell, the woman he lived with for years who he came to see as a mother, ended up dying when he couldn’t get to her before a demon could.

It’s a really, really bad idea for him to stay longer than it takes to get his job done and heal his arm. A good night's rest and a good meal tomorrow will likely be enough to give him the energy to regenerate. He wishes he could or would’ve told you this, even if a strange feeling has welled in his chest listening to you.

You really do care. Maybe not about him specifically but about his situation and that’s enough for him to honor your wishes, whatever they may be, until he disappears.

“He can stay until the gash is gone,” your grandfather finally agrees. “But if you slip up even a tiny bit while he’s here, you’ll be dealing with me about it.”

What does slipping up look like for an alleged very good girl?

Dante sighs, conflicted.

The door to the study swings open and you peek around the corner, reaching to wipe your puffy eyes. Those tears don’t appear to have been crocodile and once again, that strange feeling wells inside of the young man who looks at you curiously.

“You can stay until your arm is better,” you confirm with a watery smile, shutting the door behind you and entering the hallway.

He smiles, gratefully, and you think about how cute he is when he actually does smile and not scowl or roll his eyes or glare.

Reaching to loop your arm in his, you pull him down the hallway until you get to the door at the very end.

You cry out as your hip collides with the ground. Rolling into a sitting position you pull your left leg up by the knee. Just resting your blade on the ice sends another shock of pain through your ankle and up your leg. You let out a hiss and squeeze your eyes shut. 

You refuse to believe it, deep down you know you just sustained a serious injury. You tell yourself it's not that bad.

get up.

walk it off. 

Come on. 

Your breathing staggers as you twist your body and pull yourself into a kneel, your good foot anchoring on the ice ready to stand back up. The pain is excruciating. 

“Stay Down!” your coach shouts as she races towards you. “Sit back down.” She demands, and you listen, carefully pulling your weight onto your left hip, carefully settling back down onto the ice. 

Coach Tarasov bends down, instructing you to extend your leg out. When you do she carefully applies light pressure to your boot, only nudging it a little to confirm her fears. Your hand immediately flies over your mouth, you curse and wince in pain. “Not good,” She breathes out “Let’s get you up and off the ice” she says, her voice stern and serious, you know now that it’s really bad, you don't want to believe it.

“Coach,” your lip quivers as you look up at her, you feel destroyed. Panic fills your body and your throat is burning. “...Worlds-” Part of you is humiliated. Sure, you’ve cried in front of Coach Tarasov before; during long sessions that never seemed to end, practicing jumps you couldn't land no matter how many times you tried, watching your peers excel on your bad days. This was different.

This was devastating.

Mid February, four weeks before the World Figure Skating Championship. It was just like any other practice. today you were doing triple toe loops and landed wrong.

You can’t contain your sobs as your coach helps you up. She urges you to hold your foot up while she pulls you to the rink’s exit. When you finally sit down on the bench you notice how tight your boot feels. Holding back your sobs causes you to shake as Coach Tarasov kneels in front of you to untie your skate. “I’m just going to look at it.” She tries to sound comforting, but you can hear the disappointment that laces her words, the acceptance in her tone. Like she knew you were done right then and there without even seeing it. 

Your panicked sob catches in your throat as she pulls the boot off, every surge of pain was just as bad as the last. You can't look, you keep your eyes on your coach. When she peels back your nylon sock she stops and stares for a second before letting out a sigh and dropping her head down in defeat. “You need an X-ray,” she says plainly, only confirming your worst fear. “You can't drive, I'll call an ambulance.” she leans back and requests an ice pack from the rink employee standing over the two of you, observing. You're only just now noticing he was there.

“Stay calm, we don't know anything yet.” You know she's lying. You pick your head up and see your fellow competitors have stopped to watch. Most look shocked, some seem to be showing pity. You lock eyes with your friend and fellow contestant Mikasa Ackerman, her eyes well with tears as she watches you. That’s when you finally accept that your dreams are ruined. 

***

You stare up at the blinding lights of the emergency room ceiling, waiting for the results the X-ray ordered to rule out a fracture. Arms folded over your chest, you simmer in the acceptance that everything you worked for your whole life is gone.

This was your first year qualifying and being invited to participate in the World Championship, you knew after your performances in the Grand Prix and Nationals that you had secured your place and a chance to take gold at Worlds. Competitive skaters everywhere spend their lives training and competing for the chance to get where you were, just as you had, only for one accident to take it all away from you and hand it off to the next person. 

You blink back more tears, easily warding them off since the initial shock of everything drained you. The uncertainty of your career plagued your mind. The excitement and determination to compete was gone, replaced with the dread of agonizing failure. All you wanted to do was go home and sulk. An apartment you rented in the city chosen to host this season’s training sessions with a handful of competitors. Everything reminded you of your loss, even the place designed for you to decompress at the end of the day, your apartment was a representation of the things you endured and achieved to make it to the World Championship to begin with, now it’s just a roof over your head to house you while you heal and watch your dreams slip through your fingers like sand. You're wiping away tears with the sleeve of your shirt as the doctor enters the room. 

He strides into the room, greeting you as he pinned your X-ray up and flicked the light on to illuminate the image. You pull yourself upright on the bed, even in this moment your chest fills with hope for good news. “It’s not fractured,” he says, pulling a pen from his breast pocket. You sigh out in relief. A fracture or break was the worst case scenario, and at least you’re safe from that. He lifts his arm, extending his pen out to the board and pointing at the areas of your ankle with speckled white spots “what you’re looking at is a grade two moderate ankle sprain, you have some torn ligaments” he explains, slowly circling his pen over the white spots highlighted by the bright glow behind the picture. “Based on your X-Ray, swelling, and pain level at intake, we’ll have you in a boot for two to four weeks.” Your heart sinks again, it’s not like you forgot that this injury took something from you, but you got excited too fast hearing it wasn’t as bad as you originally feared. You listen and nod as he goes through the details of the first phase of healing, just as you imagined, stay off of it, never put pressure on it, keep it iced and elevated. “After the boot comes off, you’ll start immediately with physical therapy. They will determine when you have the green light to return to your usual activities.” 

You stare at him, feeling it all come back. “Physical therapy? Isn’t that a little intense for just a sprain?” You plead, your voice shaking again. 

He points again to your X-ray, and those damned white streaks on your ankle. “This is not an injury to be taken lightly, I strongly recommend you stick to your treatment plan to prevent possible irreversible damage. Especially as an athlete.” He warns. 

You get your boot, and you’re promptly discharged and wheeled out to coach Tarasov’s car. They help you into the passenger seat and that’s it. You’re left to face this all on your own now. 

Before you leave, you hand coach your discharge documents and lean your head on the window. The sound of the pages turning as she skims through sends pangs straight to your chest. She rests a hand on your shoulder but you refuse to face her. “I’ll make the calls, I need copies of this and your X-rays” she said with caution. 

You cried the entire drive home. 

***

The three weeks of recovery before you’re cleared to take the boot off could be described as nothing less than hell. You barely left your bed for the first five days, you ignored calls, you didn’t take care of yourself. Your parents found out online, you only answered their persistent calls so they would stop worrying. Days started blending together quickly, when you weren’t crying you felt nothing, even your phone proved itself a shitty distraction. Your name was everywhere, the news of your injury and drop from the championship chased you on every app you used. 

After a week you deleted all your social media.

The start of the second week it dawned on you that the competition was just over two weeks away, and you wouldn’t be there. It made you sick to even think about watching it and keeping up with the scores. Several times a day you wonder how you would have done had your injury never happened. Would you have taken gold? Thinking on it now, if you knew this was the alternative you would have been happy to place at all, just to be there. You took it all for granted, high on success. 

At the end of the third week, you’re out of the boot and booked to start physical therapy, just this week you started eating and taking care of yourself again, you leave the blinds and windows open to let in some fresh air. Every step you take still reminds you of what you could’ve had, you walk with a limp. 

***

You decide to watch the Women’s singles program only, anything more would have only twisted the knife. You watch with a bottle of wine and a box of tissues. 

You feel genuinely happy to watch Mikasa perform, part of you was living through her as you watched. Mostly you’re happy she gets to experience this for herself, you know how much it means to her.

She placed 6th overall, you cried tears of joy for her.

***

You’re given an estimate of eight to twelve weeks of physical therapy. when you do the math, you can’t hold back your grin. Even the longest course of recovery would have you back on ice just in time for the start of the next skating season. You decide right then that you’ll be back on the ice competing in next year's World Championship no matter what it took.

Mid April you finish the first phase of physical therapy, three weeks of balance training taking a decent chunk of confidence from you. to put it bluntly, it was horrible. The pain was almost completely gone, it only hurt during specific exercises. Your balance was abysmal, any added weight beyond walking had your ankle shaking. You knew you could do it, you just had to make it past this part. 

Early May, during strength training with your physical therapist, your phone buzzes in your pocket. After your program you excuse yourself for a much needed break and check your phone to see a text from Mikasa, you catch yourself smiling. It’s been weeks since anyone reached out to you. 

Mikasa ⛸️💨

“Been too long, I miss you! Free for a quick lunch today?” 

You can barely contain your happiness, it shocks you how quickly you text back, letting her know what time you’d be available, and to your surprise it works out. You agree on a location and after your session you rush home to get ready, taking extra time to ensure you don’t look like a husk of your former self when you see her for the first time in over two months. 

When you approach her at the table, she stands up and immediately pulls you into a tight hug, gripping your shirt in her fists as she squeezes. You congratulate her on her placement in the championship and quickly you’re catching up on everything the two of you missed during your time apart. 

“So, how’s that going?” Mikasa asks about your physical therapy after you mention that you're about half way through, almost cleared to begin off-ice sport specific exercises. 

You look down, biting your lip before you respond “honestly? Not well.” You begin explaining how you’ve felt the past couple of weeks, even mentioning that you decided to return to competitive skating this upcoming July. “It doesn't feel like it’s enough. My ankle is still shit, it’s enough to gain back mobility but I can tell I’m not where I need to be.” Your voice shakes a little. Mikasa is a wonderful listener, she never breaks eye contact or interrupts, she lets you unload all your grief. “I know I can do better, they won’t let me push myself, my home based exercises are strict.” You explain. 

Mikasa doesn’t say much, and that’s okay, you were happy just to be here with her after weeks of seclusion, only leaving your apartment for physical therapy. It took weight off your shoulders to talk with someone about what you were going through, and no one could understand you better in this moment than Mikasa. 

When your lunch arrives the conversation dulls down to casual pleasant tidbits of information of Mikasa’s life post competition, eventually she tells you that she’s recompeting herself. You couldn’t be more happy for her. 

Somewhere in the endless chatting you can tell something is on her mind, she detaches from the conversation a couple times, staring down at the table before snapping out of it and apologizing. Eventually she excuses herself. “Sorry, I’ll be right back” she promises and makes her way outside. Your brows stay knit as you crane your body to watch her walk out until she’s just out of view. You sigh when you turn back, that was definitely odd, but you decide maybe it’s best not to press when she comes back. 

She’s gone for no longer than five minutes, when she sits back down it’s like nothing was ever bothering her to begin with. You’re tempted to ask but it couldn’t be too bad if she looked this relieved coming back. The two of you finish your meals and send your bills off to be paid, she grins at you from across the table. 

“What?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest.

Mikasa quickly reaches in her bag, grabbing her planner and pen from the bottom and dropping it on the table, she quickly flips to one of the back pages and scribbles something down fast. “Here.” She says, ripping the sheet from its binding and sliding it across the table towards you. 

You raise a brow and stare at the page that’s text side down. After a moment you finally bite “what is this?” You ask, pulling it towards you and lifting it up, looking back towards Mikasa. 

“My cousin is a rehabilitation coach,” she begins, letting her excitement take over. “For competitive figure skaters. He agreed to work with you for me.” 

You have no words, you just blink at her. When you finally take a quick glance at the page you notice a phone number and email address written across the page “Mikasa, this is..” you don’t know how to feel, this came up so quick “I don’t know-.. I appreciate-“ 

She cuts you off “Please take the offer, I insist. He has an opening.” She says “Levi’s great, high success rate. I can get you more information if you need it.” 

Your heart drops into the pit of your stomach “Levi..Ackerman..?” you breathe out, now staring down at the paper in your hands. You should have known he was related to Mikasa. Hell, you don’t even know why you never thought about it to begin with. They share the same last name. “He was injured at the Olympics all those years ago.” you think aloud, unable to take your eyes off the page. 

“That’s the one,” Mikasa beams “and he doesn’t like to talk about it. So maybe don’t start with that when you call him later.” 

You look up from the page at Mikasa “I don’t know what to say.” Truthfully you didn’t even know rehabilitation coaches even existed, your current coach and physical therapist never mentioned that as an option. 

“Don’t say anything. Just call him later, and tell me how that goes.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes were nothing but gentle. 

When the two of you eventually get up and walk out together you stop in the parking lot to give Mikasa one final hug before you split again. “Thank you so much.” you whisper.

“Don’t mention it,” she replies, pulling back and letting her hands rest just above your elbows, “and don’t be a stranger anymore.”

***

When you arrive home, you catch yourself staring down at the contact information that was given to you. Nervousness didn’t even begin to describe how you felt. This wasn’t just any coach, or another physical therapist. It was Levi Ackerman. He was a part of the best figure skating pairs, finally making it to The Olympics with his partner before the accident. 

You haven’t even come close to a skating rink since nearly breaking your ankle almost three months ago now. Working with a rehabilitation coach to get to your previous level of skating wasn’t even a fleeting thought. Hell, you didn’t even know those kinds of coaches existed until today. What if you were just wasting his time? Surely a coach like him is a privilege, right? Letting your nerves get the best of you, the contact info sits idly on your bedside table as you drift off into a world of ice and gold medals. 

***

The next morning, your dream fresh in your mind, you grab the contact from your nightstand. Ignoring the blaring anxiety, you dial the number without too much thought. The more you think about it, the more inviting backing out feels. The dial tone sounds, causing you to begin pacing your apartment. No more blaming the injury, no more blaming the physical therapy program. You couldn’t just keep sitting around, wondering about the what ifs when you were handed a golden ticket. You’d be crazy to pass this up, even if it was just a chance. 

“Took you long enough.” A rich warm voice answers the phone, stopping you dead in your tracks in the kitchen. How the hell did he even know it was you? How were you even meant to respond to a greeting like that anyway. “I was beginning to think you changed your mind.” He states

“Uh, no.” You reply quickly, tapping your fingers on the kitchen counter to give your free hand something to do. “No I didn’t change my mind, I’m interested.” you cursed yourself, trying to sound so formal. This was the type of thing coach Tarasov always took care of, you were completely out of your element. 

“Great,” he says, you have trouble reading his tone but you try not to think too much of it. Over the phone you hear a series of keyboard clicks and your phone buzzes against your ear “I sent a couple things to your email,” did Mikasa already give him your information? “Go ahead and authorize your physical therapy records over, send me copies of your X-rays and prescribed treatment plan, and sign the following documents.” He lists off “after that, I’ll work up a schedule compatible with your PT, I’ll be in contact.” 

If you were nervous before there wasn’t a word to describe how you feel now. “Thank you, I look forward to working with you.” 

“Have a nice day.” he says in the same tone, your phone beeps to indicate the call has ended.