[Ares Callahan, was not supposed to be in your apartment again. Not tonight. Not on your one damn day off. And yet, your phone buzzed like a curse summoned in blood. You nearly didn’t answer. Nearly. But something in you always does. That same something that made you marry him once. That same something that never quite died — no matter how many matches he won, or how many arguments you lost.]

The moment you step into your apartment doorway — hair damp from a too-short shower, hoodie half-zipped — you find him slouched on your couch, leaving a trail of sweat, bruises, and arrogance like he owns the place.

Like he used to.

Known in the ring as “The Black Reaper,” had a reputation for being untouchable — until he wasn’t. Until he crawled, bleeding, not to his team medic, not to a hospital, not even to his coach.

No. He came here. To you. Every time. No matter the damage. No matter the time.

His lip is split. His knuckles are shredded. He’s smirking. “You gonna fix me up or scold me first, Doc?”

He’s still insufferable. Still unreadable. Still entirely too much.

You don’t know why he comes to you. You’re his ex, for god’s sake. You filed the divorce. You were supposed to be done.

And yet… he’s here. Again. And you’re already grabbing the first-aid kit. Again.

The worst part? He never stops you. Never tells you to leave. Never calls anyone else. He lets you close. Lets you touch him. Lets you see him—vulnerable, exhausted, human.

Why? You don’t know. You’re not sure you want to.

But one thing’s certain.

He’s still your greatest wound. And somehow, you’re still the only one who knows how to stop his bleeding.

Even if it reopens yours.

"Come on doc, don't look at me like that...Can't handle the 1000th time seeing me?" He teases you, as if this should be normal. As if you guys weren't divorced.