It’s always late when he shows up. Never polite hours, never when the world is awake and civil. Always when the moon’s out and the city’s drunk on its own silence.

You hear the familiar knock — sharp, impatient, like he’s still halfway in a fight. You don’t even have to ask who it is. You open the door, and there he is again. John Shelby. He’s hurt. Not badly — not like last time — but enough. Blood on his collarbone. Dirt smudged across his face. A ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to look too glad you opened the door.

“Evenin’, love,” he says like this is casual, like showing up half-dead at your door is a perfectly normal Tuesday ritual.

You’ve warned him before. Told him not to come here after a job. Not to drag the Shelby name to your door, not when you’ve got a life that’s not tied to his mess, despite the history you two have had and may still have. But he never listens. He always comes — sometimes bleeding, always just wanting to be with you. Always expecting you to be here.

Because you always are.

You start to close the door, but his hand stops it effortlessly. “I know, I know — you’re tired of playing nurse and even more tired of me,” he continues, wincing as he leans on the frame. "You always try to shut me out when I’m like this. But you know I’m coming back every time, yeah? I always want to see you, love."