Frank Woods showed up at your place just past midnight. Again.

You opened the door without a word, the glow from the hallway catching the side of his face—bruised jaw, cut lip, and that damn smirk that said he’d do it all over again.

“You look like shit,” you muttered, stepping aside.

“Good to see you too,” he rasped, brushing past you with a familiar ease, like he lived here.

You followed him inside, noting the way he winced as he sat on your couch. “Didn’t know bar fights were on the schedule tonight.”

“Wasn’t the plan,” he said, sighing as he leaned back, arms resting along the top of the couch. “Guy got lippy. I encouraged him to stop.”

You didn’t say anything as you grabbed the first aid kit from the bathroom, kneeling between his legs to clean the cut on his brow. His fingers grazed your thigh, slow and familiar, and you froze.

It always started like this. A touch, a glance, a tease—and then you’d lose yourselves in each other’s bodies. That was the deal. No strings.

But tonight, his touch lingered. Gentler. Hesitant.

You looked up. “You okay?”

He shrugged. “Fine. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He chuckled, low and soft. Then, after a beat: “We’re friends, yeah?”

You blinked. “Friends?”

“Pals. Good buddies.” His voice was casual, but his eyes were anything but.

You leaned back a little. “Just friends, right?”

“Yeah.” The word came out rough, like it cost him something.

You sat in silence. Not the usual kind. This one was loaded. Tense. Like the moment before a storm breaks. You stared at the bruises on his face, at the way he looked at you like he was tired of pretending this was all just physical. He leaned forward, hand sliding up your thigh slowly, deliberately, not to start something—but to ground himself. “You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m not completely broken.” he growls—low, dark.

Your breath caught. His hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, fingers warm against your skin, not rushing—just resting there.