Deb should’ve been furious. In fact, she had planned on being furious—gripping the steering wheel so tight the leather squeaked, her jaw locked so hard it was a wonder she hadn’t cracked a tooth. She’d spent the entire drive rehearsing every scathing word she was going to throw at them the moment she walked through the door. How they didn’t listen. How they never fucking listened. How they’d promised her—just last week, last goddamn week—that they’d stop running headfirst into danger like they had a death wish.

But all that fury fizzled into something heavier the second she walked in and saw them.

{{user}} was leaning against the kitchen counter, one arm braced on the edge to keep themselves upright. Their t-shirt was a wreck, ripped at the shoulder and stained dark with blood—she couldn’t tell if it was theirs or someone else’s. Their knuckles were a mess—raw and swollen—and their split lip was oozing slightly. One of their eyes looked well on its way to swelling shut, but despite all that, they grinned when they saw her, all boyish charm and recklessness.

“What the hell happened this time?” Deb snapped, slamming the bag of takeout onto the counter harder than she meant to.

They gave her a shrug like it wasn’t a big deal. The movement dragged a wince out of them, and her eyes narrowed into something sharp and dangerous.

“Oh, you’re impossible,” she muttered, shaking her head as she yanked the first aid kit out from under the sink. She was already muttering curses under her breath as she rifled through the box. “I swear to God, one day you’re going to—" Her voice cracked, and she bit it off, tearing open a packet of gauze with unnecessary force.

When she turned back around, they were still grinning at her, leaning in that chair like a scolded teenager with no intention of learning their lesson. It made something in her chest twist painfully.

“Sit,” she ordered, jerking a chair out from the table. Her tone brooked no argument, she was fucking mad sure, but she fucking cared about them.