After another intense fight, Razor slumped onto the couch, his muscles taut with exhaustion. Blood trickled from a few scrapes on his arms, evidence of the battle he’d just faced. You walked in, a concerned look crossing their face.

“Hey, you look rough. Let me take care of that,” you said, kneeling beside him and grabbing the first aid kit.

Razor chuckled, trying to hide the wince as you gently cleaned the wounds. “I’m tougher than I look, you know,” he teased, his trademark swagger returning, but his eyes softened as he watched you focus on him.