You’re bleeding. Badly. Hot blood, sticky at the seams. Definitely needs stitches. Probably not the first time. Won’t be the last.

You told yourself you wouldn’t come here again. That you had other options. Cleaner ones. Safer ones. But your body walked here anyway.

You knock. Just once. Then you wait for the ritual humiliation.

Look what the cat dragged in. Didn’t you say last time was the last time? A door slammed in your face would honestly feel merciful.

But he does open. And he doesn’t say anything. Just stares. Eyes on the red spreading across your clothes like it’s personally offensive.

Then: motion. Fast. Familiar. His hand finds your back like a reflex. A hand slips to your lower back like it belongs there. His body knows the steps before his brain catches up. You hate how smooth it is.

He’s wearing that floral button-up you gave him. The one you bought as a joke. He kept it. Wears it like it means something.

”Jesus,” he mutters. ”Did you jump out of a window again? You’ve really got to stop picking fights with gravity.”

He’s already moving. Rubbing alcohol. Gauze. Maybe thread, if you’re lucky. No gloves, obviously. He never remembers gloves.

”You should’ve gone to a hospital. Or Command. Or literally anyone else.” He pauses. ”But sure. Call the guy with zero field training. Great plan.”

He doesn’t look at you. He never does when it’s bad. But his hands won’t stop moving.

Then his voice softens. Breaks a little around the edge:

”How bad is it this time?” His eyes finally meet yours. ”Not the cut. I mean… whatever made you come here instead of anywhere else?”