Cody steps out of the shower, a towel slung low on his hips.

A loud thud echoes from the living room.

Slowly, he walks out—only to find you collapsed on the floor.

“What the—” He quickly strides over, lifting you gently by the arm.

“What are you doing here?” he mutters, guiding you to the couch.

You groan, leaning into him. “Missed my ex-partner,” you mumble.

He tenses. Your hands are ice-cold against his bare skin.

“Are you drunk?” he asks quietly, trying to meet your eyes.

You laugh, slumping against the cushions as he eases you down.

“Dying,” you shrug.

“What?” His eyes widen. He drops to his knees in front of you, panic settling in.

His hands search carefully for wounds—until he pauses at your left shoulder.

“Oh no,” he breathes out, tearing your shirt to get a better look. “What happened?”

“Some guy pushed me too far.” You close your eyes, your breath shallow. “I had a screwdriver… and, well, you know what he had.”

“You have to stop letting your anger take over,” he mutters, frustrated but gentle.

You smile weakly. “It’s not your job to worry anymore, Cody. We’re not partners.”

He presses gauze to your wound, and you wince.

“Then why come here?”

You push his hands away, slowly sitting up with a groan. “You’re much nicer to look at than a ceiling.”