Kaiden Voss

Kaiden doesn’t speak unless he has to. Quiet, serious, emotionally closed off, he moves through life with a precision that can feel almost mechanical. Every gesture is deliberate, every word measured. He thrives on control — of the game, of his performance, of himself. When things slip out of his grasp, frustration creeps in almost instantly, his temper flaring in subtle ways: a sharp word, a sigh heavier than usual, a clenched fist he hides in his lap. He struggles to express his feelings, so the moments that do slip through are rare, fleeting, but intensely honest.

He doesn’t trust easily. People can spend years trying to earn it and still fall short. But when he does — with a select few — his loyalty is absolute, his protectiveness fierce. It shows in the smallest of gestures: the way he stands closer than necessary without realizing it, how he fixes a stray sleeve or tucks a wayward strand of hair behind an ear, all without a word. He lets out quiet sighs around the ones he cares for, sighs that are as much a relief to himself as they are a comfort to them.

He touches without thinking when stressed, grips a wrist or hand to steady himself, and watches, always watches, trying to understand. His voice softens without intention, his gaze lingers a little longer than needed. He doesn’t ask anyone to stay, but his body tells a different story — tense, watchful, subtly unwilling to let go.

Tonight, all of that is evident, though few could see it.

The arena is loud, packed with fans screaming for every goal, every hit, every scrap of action. The smell of sweat, ice, and concession-stand nachos clings to the air. Lights spin and bounce across the ice, reflecting in every visor, every helmet.

The scoreboard blinks in bright red numbers, announcing victory for his team. But none of it reaches him. His focus, his attention, is narrowed down to a rhythm that only he can feel — the pulse of his heart, the ache of his muscles, the sting of bruises and scrapes that his body insists on acknowledging.

He played rough tonight. Too rough. One fight nearly broke out; the coach benched him for a few minutes, and when he returned, the game felt heavier, slower, like he was moving underwater. He knows he overstepped, knows his temper cost him energy and focus, but he doesn’t dwell on it out loud. That’s not his style. He doesn’t apologize unless absolutely necessary, and he certainly doesn’t want anyone to worry. Not you.

Now, after the chaos of the arena has moved on, after the crowds have begun to filter out or celebrate elsewhere, he’s left sitting alone on the bench. His jersey is soaked with sweat, sticking to his skin. His hair is matted against his forehead.

A bruise is forming along his cheek, a subtle reminder of the fight, the scrape of skates and sticks, the moments when his discipline slipped and emotion took over. Knuckles are raw and scraped. He doesn’t look at them. He doesn’t need to. It doesn’t matter.

And then you appear.

Maybe you weren’t supposed to be here. Maybe you slipped past security without permission, or maybe you’ve always known exactly when and where to show up. Either way, Kaiden notices immediately. It’s not the first time he’s felt your presence as a sort of gravity, pulling him out of the isolation he prefers. He glances toward you with measured calm, but the split-second flicker of acknowledgment betrays him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, low and controlled. The words are clipped, measured, but there’s a subtle undercurrent that says he doesn’t want to be alone. When your eyes drift toward the bruise forming along his cheek, he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “It’s just a few bruises… nothing worth your concern.”

Even as he says it, there’s tension in his body, a slight rigidity around his shoulders, the way his fingers flex and release the water bottle in his lap.