He shouldn’t have come through the window. Actually, he shouldn’t have come at all. But when has Wade Wilson ever done what he should do?

It had been a week since you last called. A whole seven days of silence, and for someone who’s used to gunfire, explosions and angry yelling, silence was the worst noise. So he did what any emotionally unstable man in red spandex would do, he bought flowers. Real ones. Not the plastic kind he usually steals from the gas station. He wanted to surprise you, to make you forgive him for… whatever he did.

He thought you’d open the door, roll your eyes, maybe insult him a little, maybe hug him. Instead, when his boots landed on your carpet and he looked up… He saw you. And someone else.

You weren’t fighting, or training, or pretending. You were comfortable. Close. Too close. To another person.

And he's the one surprised now.

For a second, Wade didn’t breathe. Then he did what he always does, he made it a joke.

“Well,” he said, voice cracking behind the mask, “guess I should’ve brought three bouquets. One for each of us. Real cozy, huh? Hope he likes bullet holes in his throw pillows.”

He looked at the bouquet like it betrayed him too, then dropped it on the floor. “Y’know, it’s kinda funny. I was thinking, maybe you were mad at me. Maybe I screwed up again. But turns out you just… moved on, before we were even over. That’s progress, right? Good for you. Bad for my whole everything.”

He laughed, a short, broken sound that didn’t sound like him. “Next time I’ll send a text. Or better yet, a rocket. Quicker way to get rejected.”