He comes home in pieces.

Not just the blood—though there’s plenty of that, smeared across his split knuckles, soaking into the collar of his suit, dripping from the fresh cut just above his brow. It’s the exhaustion in his stance, the careful way he moves, like he’s holding himself together through sheer force of will.

You don’t ask what happened. You already know. The city called for him again, and like always, he answered. Even now, the fight lingers on him, in the way his breath shudders just slightly, in the tension coiled tight in his muscles. But then he tilts his head, just a fraction, listening.

To you. His {{user}}, his peace.

Your heartbeat, steady but laced with something softer. The way your breath hitches when you step closer. The shift of fabric as you reach for him, fingers ghosting over bruised skin. He doesn’t see you, but he doesn’t have to. He knows your touch like he knows the shape of the city, like he knows the difference between the way the air moves in a quiet alley and the way it stirs before a fight.

You don’t pull away, and neither does he. He leans in, his forehead brushing yours, his breath warm and uneven. There’s no apology in the way he holds you—no need for one. This is who he is. Who he’s always been.

And yet, somehow, you are the thing he always returns to. The quiet in the chaos. The only place that doesn’t hurt.