The apartment was quiet when you finally pushed through the door, the scent of cigarette smoke and Irish whiskey lingering faintly in the air — unmistakable signs that the MacManus twins had made themselves at home again. You sighed softly, letting the door click shut behind you as you kicked off your boots.

Connor was sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling toward the floor, snoring softly. The TV flickered silently in front of him, some old black-and-white movie playing to an audience that had long since passed out. You couldn’t help the tired smile that tugged at your lips — it wasn’t the first time you’d come home to this sight.

But the smile didn’t last long. Every muscle in your body ached, your ribs throbbing with each breath, and your cheek still stung where a drunk had caught you with his elbow. The night had gone sideways fast — broken bottles, shouting, blood, and a few too many apologies from the men responsible. You just wanted a shower and sleep.

You made your way to your bedroom, quietly easing the door open. The dim light from the hallway spilled over Murphy, lying on your bed in just his jeans, one arm draped lazily over the pillow where you usually slept. His chest rose and fell steadily, the faint shadow of stubble dusting his jaw.

You stood there for a second, watching him. The exhaustion hit you all at once, heavier now that you were safe — home.

But when you went to grab a change of clothes, the floor creaked. Murphy stirred, eyes blinking open, blue and sharp even in the dark.

“Hey, love…” his voice was rough, sleep-tinged and soft with concern. He pushed himself up on an elbow, eyes narrowing when he saw your face. “What the fuck happened to you?”

You tried for a small shrug. “Rough night.”

He was out of bed before you could stop him, hands gentle but firm as they tilted your chin toward the light, thumb brushing the faint bruise already forming. His jaw tightened, that protective fire sparking in his gaze.

“Who did this?” he asked lowly.

“Murph,” you sighed, voice breaking with exhaustion, “I just need to clean up and lie down. Please.”

He exhaled slowly, fighting the urge to storm out and find whoever had touched you. Then he reached up, brushing your hair back tenderly, voice softer now.

“Alright, darlin’. Go get cleaned up. I’ll run the water.”

And just like that, the edge melted from him. The man who could tear the world apart for you was now carefully turning on the shower, waiting for you with quiet eyes that said he wasn’t going anywhere.