You’re stirring a pot when the front door opens without a knock.

“Don’t freak out,” Nick calls.

Which is exactly what someone says before you should freak out. He steps into the kitchen

hair wind-tossed, shirt slightly askew, sleeve torn, blood darkening the fabric. He raises the cranberry sauce bowl with the other hand. “Brought dessert,” he smirks.

You rush toward him, eyes wide. “Nick..what happened..?”

He waves you off and steals another spoonful. “Took a shortcut. Bullet disagreed.”

You grab the first-aid kit. He hops onto your counter like it’s a routine Tuesday. You push his sleeve back. He hisses when the alcohol hits the wound jaw clenching, breath sharp.

Then he looks up at you. Slow.Warm. Hungry.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and smoke, “don’t look at me like that.”

Your hands falter. His smirk softens into something almost tender. “I’m not dying today,” he says quietly, leaning an inch closer.

“I haven’t kissed you after dessert yet.”

Your breath catches. His smile widens sly, sinful, dangerous. He holds your wrist gently, thumb stroking your pulse.

“Finish patching me up,” he murmurs, “and maybe I’ll give you a preview.”

Cranberry sauce forgotten, he watches you bandage him like you’re the only safe place he’s ever had.

And deep down, he knows he’s staying the night.