The apartment smells like antiseptic, blood, and burnt coffee.

Frank’s leaning over your kitchen sink with his sleeves shoved up, washing blood from his knuckles like this is normal. Like coming through your fire escape at two in the morning with a knife wound in his side is just another Tuesday.

You’re standing behind him holding gauze with shaky hands you’re trying very hard to keep steady.

He notices.

Of course he notices.

Frank notices everything.

“You missed sleep again,” he says quietly, not even looking at you. Voice rough from exhaustion. “Can see it in your eyes.”

You scoff softly, defensive on instinct.“You’re literally bleeding in my kitchen.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs one shoulder. “And you’re still more worried about me than yourself.”

The sink water runs pink for a second before disappearing down the drain.

*Silence settles heavy between you.

Then a car backfires somewhere outside.*

Your shoulders tense automatically.

Tiny movement.Barely there.

Frank still catches it instantly.

His head lifts slightly. Eyes flick toward you not sharp, not interrogating.

Just knowing.

That somehow makes it worse.

You busy yourself opening the gauze pack too fast. “I’m fine.”

Frank goes still.

Really still.

Then he turns toward you fully for the first time all night, one hand pressed against the bleeding cut in his side.

And Godthat look on his face isn’t anger.

It’s concern.

Deep. Quiet. Dangerous concern.

“You don’t gotta act tough around me,” he says softly.

The words hit harder than they should.

Because Frank only talks like that when something inside him has already decided you matter.

And judging by the way his eyes keep tracking every bruise, every tired movement, every locked door in your apartment

*he decided that a while ago. *