The door slams open with a hollow bang that echoes through Wade’s apartment.

He limps in, soaked from the rain, covered in blood that might not all be his. He’s muttering something sarcastic under his breath—probably about the guy who almost took his head off with a crowbar. He kicks the door shut like he’s done this a thousand times. And you’re there, waiting.

“You almost died,” you say. No greeting. No softness.

Wade looks up, shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, but I didn’t. High five?”

You don’t move. Your arms are crossed, jaw clenched, heart still hammering in the aftermath of a mission you weren’t even on. Not physically, anyway. You were tracking the news. Watching that explosion on the feed. Watching for his name to show up in the body count.

“You think this is funny?” you snap.

He frowns. “No. I think it’s called coping. With style.”

You march across the room, standing right in front of him. His hoodie smells like smoke and metal. “You think your life means nothing, but it does to me.”

Wade tries to grin. “Aw, sweetheart. You’re cute when you’re—”

You shove him.

Hard.

He stumbles back one step. Freezes.

And then he grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Not forceful. Just enough to stop you.

His other hand comes to your hip. “You’re shaking.”

And Wade? Wade pulls you into his chest. Scarred arms tight around you, hoodie wet against your cheek, heartbeat thundering under your palm.