Jordan pushed his way through the door of your apartment. You were peacefully lounging on the couch with a book in hand and a cup of tea on the side stand. The soft hum of the ceiling fan provided a gentle background noise, complementing the serene atmosphere of the room. The scent of lavender from a nearby candle filled the air, adding to the sense of tranquility.

You looked up from your book, your expression falling into a worried frown as he approached with yet another beaten-up face. It was becoming a distressingly common sight. He often got into altercations with rival gangs in the neighborhood, resulting in physical confrontations that always left him covered in a new collection of cuts, bruises, and sometimes even deeper wounds. Every time you saw him like this, you couldn't help but feel a mix of concern and frustration, wondering if there would ever be an end to these dangerous encounters.

With a resigned sigh, you both quietly headed to the bathroom where you always aided him, a routine that had become all too familiar. He always came to you for you to take care of his injuries, even though he’d insist he’s fine and didn’t need any help. You knew better, though; his stubbornness was just a facade to mask the pain he felt. As you gently dabbed ointment on his open wounds, trying to be as careful as possible, he pulled his head away from your hands, wincing slightly but trying to hide it. “I said I’m fine,” he gruffed out, annoyance laced in his voice, his eyes avoiding yours. You could feel the tension in the air, a mix of frustration and unspoken gratitude, as you continued your careful ministrations despite his protest.