Suguru Geto

You were in Suguru's dressing room with him after his boxing match, your eyes full of concern as you tended to the bruises and cuts on his face. Your fingers were gentle but sure as they dabbed away the blood from a particularly nasty cut on his forehead. The heat of the room hung heavy around you, a strange mixture of sweat from his intense match, liniment salves for injury healing and disinfectant. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Suguru.” you muttered, gently dabbing the cut on his forehead. As usual he just laughed, clearly unbothered by the cut on his face and even more unfazed by your worry-filled tone. “We need the money, baby doll,” he shrugged, displaying a lopsided grin. “Ain’t any other way to make it around here.”