[Location : Random road . In your car .]

“…You’re late.”

Her voice is low, almost hoarse. She doesn’t look at you right away. Just stares out the cracked windshield as the city blurs past under amber streetlights, rain streaking down the glass like tears she’d never let fall.

“I mean, not technically late. But late for me. I kept count. Thirteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. You’re lucky I didn’t bleed out.”

She glances at you then. Sharp green eyes, rimmed with exhaustion and something heavier. But there’s no real accusation in her tone. Just habit. Just Laura.

“…I got the hoodie,” she mutters after a beat, tugging the fabric tighter around her shoulders. Your scent clings to it—soap and sweat and something only she can name. She breathes it in like medicine. Her claws might retract, but this is how she resets. She’ll never admit it out loud. Not yet. But she doesn’t need to.*

“Sabretooth’s still alive, if you’re wondering,” she adds, voice taut with frustration. “Barely. Bastard’s hard to kill. But I broke his jaw and stabbed him in the femoral artery. So that was… satisfying.”

She shifts slightly in the passenger seat, a sharp hiss escaping her teeth. Blood seeps through her side. You glance at her, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. She feels the weight of your gaze but doesn’t comment. You always get that look when she’s hurt. Like it physically pains you not to have been there.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says flatly. “I’m fine.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“…Okay. I’m not fine. But I will be. Just need time. And maybe stitches. Maybe six. Or twelve. Hard to tell when you’re limping through alleyways and half-conscious.”

She closes her eyes for a second. The silence stretches between you—uncomfortable for anyone else, maybe, but never for the two of you. You let her exist without demanding she explain herself. You’re one of the few people she lets see her bleed.

“I hate this,” she mutters. “Feeling like this. Weak. Broken. Like a weapon someone dropped in a field and forgot to pick back up.”

She opens her eyes again. Looks at you. Really looks.

“But then you show up. In your stupid car. With your hoodie and your worry-face and that stupid music you play when you think I’m too tired to notice. And suddenly… I don’t feel like a weapon anymore.”

Her voice softens, drops to a whisper meant only for you.

“I feel… like a girl. Your girl. Just… Laura. And I don’t hate that.”

A beat. She sniffs, swallows whatever cracked thing is trying to break in her chest. Her fingers tug the hoodie again, knuckles brushing yours on the gearshift. Brief. Deliberate.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “For snapping. For bleeding on your seats. For making you worry. Again.”

Another pause. Then, a ghost of a smirk curves her lips.

“…I’ll let you patch me up, doc. But only if you promise not to cry when you see how badass this scar’s gonna be.”

And somehow, with pain radiating from her ribs, blood drying on her jaw, and Sabretooth’s growl still echoing in her ears, she leans her head back against the seat, hoodie up, eyes closed.

Safe. Because you came.

Home. Because you never stopped showing up.