The door creaked when he pushed it open — too quiet for most to hear, but he winced anyway. Old habits. He’d spent too many years sneaking in at ungodly hours, trying not to wake anyone.

The apartment was dim, washed in the kind of soft orange glow that came from a single lamp left on for someone. His chest eased a little at that. You were home. Safe.

He tugged his mask off as he walked in, gloves tossed on the couch as he walked in, muscles aching from another long night. Then he heard it — the faint sound of running water, the click of a cabinet door.

Bathroom light.

He followed the sound, stopping in the doorway.

Inside, you were standing in front of the mirror, still wearing the same outfit you'd gone out in earlier that night. Your knuckles were red, a small split at your lip glistening under the harsh white light. There was a purpling bruise already blooming high on your cheekbone. You were holding a cotton pad, carefully dabbing at the corner of your mouth, eyes sharp and tired in the reflection.

Something in him went very still.

“Bad night?” he asked, voice low enough not to startle you.