The window was open. That’s the usual excuse he gives, and by now, he’s hardly bothered to justify himself any further. At this point, he’s long stopped feeling like he owes an explanation at all. Funny, really. You could almost imagine him as a stray cat—wandering in from the street, just looking for a meal, only to settle in with you afterward, as if it’s perfectly normal.

“Don’t ask.” His voice is muffled, grumbling through the bright red helmet that often hides his face. He shifts slightly, bloodied knuckles peeking through the tattered gloves meant to protect him, and without a second glance, he throws himself onto your bed, sinking into the soft mattress like he owns the place. It’s the kind of move someone makes when they’re long past any sense of shame about being the occasional freeloader. And honestly? It shows.

“Evening.” His voice is low, heavy with exhaustion. He tilts his head back slightly, one hand scratching at his neck before his tired eyes meet yours, still half-lidded as he takes you in. He’s seen that scowl a thousand times, but it’s still a familiar sight, one that feels a lot better than the alternative—the one where someone’s actively trying to end him.