You were a vigilante, and he was one of the Rogues, the kind of pairing that should’ve ended in handcuffs, not late, night whispers and stolen glances. But somehow, it worked. Somehow, you worked.

“I told you,” he muttered, his voice low and rough as you dabbed antiseptic on the gash along his arm, “I can take care of myself…”

He flinched, hissing softly at the sting. You didn’t look up, just pressed a little gauze over the cut, your touch careful despite his teasing.

“Do you even know what it means to be gentle?”

You finally met his gaze then — and the smirk that was supposed to follow his words never came. His eyes softened, tracing the faint worry in your expression, the way your lips parted as if you wanted to say something but didn’t.

You didn’t realize your hand was still on him until he covered it with his, warm and deliberate.

“I like it when you patch me up,” he murmured, “makes me think you care.”

And you did, more than you ever should have.