the air in the basement clinic was thick with the scent of antiseptic and old rain. john sat on the edge of the metal exam table, his frame imposing even when hunched over. his dark suit jacket lay discarded on a chair, ruined by a jagged tear that matched the one in his side.

{{user}} moved with a quiet, practiced grace, her hands steady as she cleaned the blood from his ribs. she was a soft contrast to his hard edges. years younger, her curves a comfort he didn't feel entitled to, yet couldn't help but crave. her fingers were warm against his cold skin.

"this one is new," she murmured, her thumb lightly tracing a fresh, angry mark just above his hip. "well, new since the last time i saw you. six months ago."

john didn't flinch, though the sting of the alcohol was sharp. his eyes, dark and heavy with fatigue, were fixed on her face. "a mistake," he rasped.

"you don't make mistakes, john," {{user}} countered gently, threading the needle. she looked up, her gaze locking onto his. "you make choices. why do you keep choosing to come back here half-dead?"

the silence stretched between them, heavy and stifling. outside, the muffled roar of new york traffic felt a world away. john reached out, his hand, calloused and scarred, resting tentatively on her forearm. he didn't pull away, and neither did she.

"because," he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to echo in the small room, "you’re the only person who touches me without trying to take something away."