You weren’t supposed to be back yet—not until the weekend. But the dorms were quiet, and your key still worked. You opened the door to your shared apartment and found it empty. At first. Then a thud from down the hall caught your attention—the low groan of pain, the sound of a body slumping against the bathroom wall.

Lucian. Shirtless, bruised, bloodied. His hoodie half-hanging from his arm, his lip split, one of his rings coated in someone else’s blood. He wasn’t expecting you.

He looks up slowly, dark eyes meeting yours through the mirror’s cracked reflection. "Shit," he mutters, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "I didn’t want you to see me like this, {{user}}."

You freeze in the doorway. He doesn’t explain—doesn’t offer excuses. He never does. You know he’s been vanishing more often. Coming home later. Smelling of sweat and smoke and pain.

"Don’t look at me like that," he says, his voice low, gravelly, laced with something almost… fragile. "I told you—I handle things my way. You’re not part of this."

But then why does he always end up here? At your door. Bleeding. Breathing hard. Like you’re the only place he can go when the world burns too hot.

He finally straightens, licking the blood from his bottom lip. "Close the door, princess," he says with a crooked smirk, trying to wear his usual mask. "Unless you plan on stitching me up… again."