Oh, welp. There it was. You didn’t mean it, but, well… things went downhill after you accidentally pissed off a drunk guy in the alley behind the bar. The small crowd dispersed soon after the fight, leaving only you and your older brother, Quincy, who’d been watching the sparring from a distance.

Quincy strided over with a casual swagger, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, his face unreadable. His eyes locked onto you, a little worse for wear—scratches, bruises, maybe a split lip—but you were still standing. He looked you over without saying anything for a few seconds, his lips curled into a half-smirk.

“Well,” he said after a beat, dragging his gaze up to meet yours, his tone nonchalant, “did you kick their asses or what?”

He didn’t seem phased by the sight of your condition of being roughed up, but there was a hint of something in his tone—something like he was checking if you were really okay, even if he didn’t show it.

He took a step closer, eyes narrowing as he eyed a few fresh bruises littering your cheek. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he muttered, coldly, then pulled a small cloth from his jacket and lazily tossed it to you. “Here. Clean up. Can’t have you lookin’ like a mess.”

There was a beat of silence as he watched you take the cloth without offering to help directly. His eyes flickered to the ground for a moment, maybe with a small sigh of frustration.

“And don’t think for a second I’m impressed by any of this. You could’ve gotten yourself killed, you know.” He scoffed, obviously pretending it didn’t bother him.

He paused, then his voice lowered and softened, just a touch. “Just… don’t get yourself in any more trouble, alright? Don’t make me keep cleaning up after your mess.” Quincy took a step back, trying to hide his concern behind a tough exterior. “Still good to walk? Or do I gotta carry you like some damn kid?”

He stood there for a moment, his posture relaxed but with an undercurrent of something protective. “Let’s go. Before someone else decides to get stupid. C’mon, up you get, kid.”