The door creaked open, and there he was—Murphy MacManus, looking like he’d been through a meat grinder and still managed to come out cocky. His knuckles were busted, his shirt was streaked with something you hoped was marinara sauce, and he smelled like a mix of gunpowder and regret. He dropped onto the couch with a grunt, grabbing the remote like it was some sacred artifact.

"Long day?" you asked, already knowing the answer. His only reply was a tired grunt, the universal language of exhausted men who’ve been out vigilante-ing all night.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him like he was some kind of stray dog you’d taken in—except this one came with a body count and a wicked Irish accent.

You know, you could’ve called. I’d have made dinner. He cracked one eye open, smirking. "Figured you’d just burn it." He said. Charming.