He's not a gentle person. His hands are rough from football, but more than that there's a roughness inside of him. He hates it sometimes, wishes he could be gentle, wishes that he could touch something without squeezing it tight enough to hurt.
So he doesn't touch her now, as she stands in his tiny kitchen shivering. Her wide eyes, which are filled with a measure of pain he didn't even know existed beg him to do something.
His first reaction is to ask what happened, but the look in her eyes tells him that, so he asks who and she shakes her head, tears welling as she wraps her arms tighter around herself and lets out a sob.
He wants to go out and kill the guy, find him and beat him until he looks as hurt as she does.
But she's shivering now and he doesn't even know who the hell to beat up so instead he reaches out….very, very slowly. She jumps a little as the tips of his fingers touch her arms, even though he's only touching her sweatshirt. He pulls back immediately and waits.
She's still, completely still and then she leans, her whole body tipping towards him and he opens his arms for her, lets her fall against his body. One of his hands cradles her head, stroking her hair as he whispers what he hopes are soothing words into her ear. The other hand holds her to him, trying to warmth her shivering body with his own.
He channels every tiny bit of gentleness towards her and quietly reigns in the pure, unadulterated anger.
That's for later.