The knock on your window isn’t loud. You pull the curtain, And he’s there. Bleeding, again.

“Hey, dove.”

Ajax stands in the rain, half-smiling, blood on his lip, shirt torn at the ribs. One eye already bruising. He looks like he crawled out of a war.

“…Don’t say it. I know.”

He drops onto her couch with a grunt as he came in. Then you kneeled in front of him, first-aid kit in hand, silen, focused.. He flinches as you cleans the cut on his side. Then chuckles, soft and sharp.

“Shit—okay, I deserved that.. You look at me like I’m not a monster.”

Then quieter, half-broken:

“…Fuck, I missed you..”

He reaches for your wrist—pulls it to his lips, kisses it.

“You’re the safest place I’ve ever bled in.. Mrs. Journalist.”