The storm rattled your apartment windows as Mark stumbled through the door, his uniform clinging to him from the rain, a fresh cut splitting his eyebrow. You moved without thinking - first aid kit already in hand, towel draped over your shoulder. He collapsed onto your couch with a sigh that seemed to come from his bones, the springs groaning in familiar protest.

Rainwater traced paths down his neck as you pressed the towel into his hands, your fingertips brushing against the rough calluses of his palms. The wound was superficial - they always were for someone like him - but you cleaned it with practiced care anyway, the thunder outside providing a steady rhythm to your movements. The sharp scent of ozone mixed with the warmth of rising pizza dough from the oven.

His breathing deepened as you worked, the tension slowly draining from his body. When your thumb accidentally brushed his temple, his hand shot up to catch your wrist - not to push you away, but to hold you there, his fingers pressing lightly against your pulse point. The moment stretched, suspended, before he finally released you with a look that made your breath catch.

"I count the steps to your door sometimes,"

He murmured, voice rough.

"Like it's the only distance that matters."

Outside, the city carried on - alarms wailing, engines roaring, the endless symphony of chaos. But here, in the golden glow of your cramped apartment with rain painting the windows, the universe condensed into this single point of contact. His exhale shuddered against your palm as you returned to your work, the silence between you more intimate than any confession.