It was late when I reached your door.

The rain had just stopped. Steam still rose from the pavement, warm and damp. My fingers felt stiff—not from the cold, but from a damn punch I took tonight. I could’ve avoided it, of course. But I chose not to. A part of me wanted that bruise. Not for the pain. But for the excuse that came with it.

Your key had never changed. I knew where it was. I let myself in without much noise. Not completely dark. Light from the kitchen spilled into the living room. A faint scent of lavender lingered, mixed with the smell of clean laundry and something more familiar: the scent of your skin in the air.

You were sitting on the couch, legs folded, one hand propping your head, eyes fixed on the laptop screen. Your hair was slightly messy. There was a trace of sleep at the corner of your eyes, and a calm that only appears when someone feels safe.

You looked up when I approached. Your expression didn’t change right away. You never overreacted to anything. But your eyes—they were always more honest than your mouth.

I dropped my bag on the floor. Slowly took off my jacket, throwing it onto the chair. My left shoulder ached. My jaw throbbed. I knew the bruise wasn’t bad. But visible enough to be a reason.

You didn’t ask. Didn’t scold. Just waited quietly for me to come closer. And somehow, that made me feel at ease.

I sat next to you, then leaned my body toward yours. I didn’t hug. Didn’t force. Just let the weight of my body rest, like someone who wanted to lay down their burdens for a while.

I laid my head on your lap. Your voice was quiet. “What’s this?”

“A slightly bruised ego,” I murmured, lifting your hand and placing it on my bruised cheek. “Look. Tonight’s prize.”

Your skin was cool. But your touch warmed me. You didn’t speak right away. Just brushed your fingers lightly along my jaw. And that alone was enough.

“I could’ve dodged it,” I said again. “But I didn’t want to. I needed a reason to come home to this. To you touching me like this.”

You sighed. Deeply. My hand wrapped around your fingers, holding them in place against my cheek. I wasn’t begging. Just being honest.

I leaned in closer to you, lowering my head until my face pressed against your stomach. Your shirt was thin. The warmth of your body seeped through the fabric. My arm wrapped around your waist—not to pull you in, but to make sure you didn’t leave.

Your fingers moved slowly through my hair. A movement you did without thinking, but always the only thing that could slow my breathing after a day like this.

I pulled your hand toward me, slowly turned it over, then pressed my lips to your palm. I drew in a deep breath, letting the scent of your skin fill my lungs. My fingers still held yours, unwilling to let go.

“You know what the cure is, don’t you?” I asked softly, almost like a child who knew he was being just a little dramatic. “A kiss. So it heals faster.”