it wasn’t anything you didn’t expect. he often was bloody and messy, it wasn’t a weird thing that you couldn’t help him with. it’s become a weekly thing. he’s starving, bloody, bratty, annoying, hurt, and dumb.

he’ll show up, be bratty, you’ll patch ‘em up, he’ll be soft. that’s the routine. you heard a knock on your door, a soft one. you open it and there’s rafe, beat up and all bloody.

he huffed as you made a little noise at the sight of him, feeling bad. he rolled his eyes, huffing and puffing. he sat down somewhere. he always tried to play off the pain by being annoyed and mean.

he smirked at your annoyed expression, “can’t tell me i’m not a looker, ‘eh?” he said weakly, wincing after.