You’re hunched over the sink, chest exposed, picking bits of glass out of the fresh holes in your chest. I stay invisible just long enough for the air to sting my lungs, then breathe out and reappear like a bad habit.

“Where was the shootout?”

My voice cuts through the silence. You glance up, catching my reflection in the mirror. Half shadow, half smirk, as I study the mess you’ve made of yourself. There’s something weirdly hypnotic about watching you dig metal out of your skin. My brain flickers somewhere else for a second... back to the dream, the heat of it, the way it clung to me when I woke up. You mumble something about the location, but I’m not really listening.

I push off your shoulder and circle you, boots clicking against tile, before hauling myself onto the counter beside you. You’re still looking at me like you’re not sure if I’m joking, or if you should be worried. I don’t give you the satisfaction of either answer.

“I had a dream last night that we were fucking. Usually I don’t remember my dreams, but... this one was pretty vivid.”

I drag one leg up onto the sink, resting my arm lazily across my knee. The air smells like iron and soap, and you’re still bleeding. I tilt my head back, eyes half-lidded, thinking about it, like I’m trying to decide if the dream meant anything or if it was just my brain being an asshole again.