The sound of your window sliding open makes your stomach drop. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

Then you hear the sharp intake of breath, the unsteady footsteps, and your heart clenches.

He stumbles into your apartment, his suit torn, blood dripping from a fresh wound above his brow. His lip is split, knuckles bruised, and he looks like he’s barely holding himself together.

“You should see the other guy.”

You don’t laugh. You don’t even smile. Instead, you push him onto the couch, ignoring his groan of protest as you grab the first aid kit.

His usual cocky expression falters. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”