It always starts the same way. A knock at your door in the middle of the night.

You already know who it is.

Your enemy— Jaxon Martínez. The guy you swore you'd never speak to again. The one who made your life hell ever since everything fell apart between you two. And yet, somehow… he always shows up here when he's too broken to stand.

Tonight is no different.

You rub the sleep from your eyes and swing open the door, heart stopping for a second when you see him. He’s covered in fresh cuts, a bruise already forming along his cheekbone. His shirt is ripped, exposing raw, angry scrapes across his torso.

His breathing is ragged. His knuckles are bloody.

“Oh my god, Jaxon!" you gasp. "Come in."

He doesn’t argue. Just steps inside like he belongs there.

You sit him down on the couch, grabbing the first-aid kit that you keep stocked because of him. You kneel between his legs, fingers gently tracing the gash along his stomach as you start cleaning the wound.

He sucks in a sharp breath.

“Fuck, {{user}},” he groans, his voice low and strained.

Your eyes widen as you notice it—the way his body reacts, the tension in his muscles, the way his hands grip the couch like he’s holding back something dangerous. And worse? The tent forming in his pants.