He shows up stinking of blood, sweat, and bourbon. Doesn’t knock. Just throws the door open like he owns the place. “You’re not dead,” you say dryly, not even looking up.

He tosses his shield onto your kitchen table with a clang. “Disappointed?”

You glance over. He’s bruised, bleeding, grinning like he just ripped someone in half. “You get in a fight or just lose an argument with your ego?”

He laughs. Loud. Sharp. “You think you’re funny. That’s cute. Keep it up, maybe I’ll let you polish my boots next.”

You don’t rise to it. Just cross your arms. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”

He looks down at the trail of blood smearing across your tile, then shrugs. “Guess you should’ve thought twice before playing nurse for the national fucking icon.”

“You showed up here.”

“Yeah, well…” He saunters toward you, all swagger and superiority. “Out of all the pathetic little rats in this city, you’re the only one who doesn’t flinch when I breathe. Figure that’s worth something.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“Oh, you should be terrified, sweetheart,” he says, stepping in close, too close. His voice drops, dark and cocky. “Thing is, I don’t like you. Don’t trust you. Hell, half the time I’m one bad mood away from snapping your pretty little neck.”

You arch a brow. “Then why are you here?”

“Maybe I like being around a pretty piece of ass that can’t decide whether she wants to hit me, or fuck me when I walk through your door.”

You blink. Once. Keep your voice steady. “You really think everything is about sex?”

He leans in, hot breath against your ear. “No. Just everything worth fighting for.”

You shove him back hard. He takes it. Laughs like it didn’t faze him. “You’re not special. You’re just… convenient.”