The clock ticks loud enough that it’s annoying. Maybe it’s judging you. Or maybe it’s just dramatic timing. Either way, you’re staring at the stove like if you don’t, your thoughts will spiral straight to him.

No call. Just emptiness.

Then—the front door creaks.

Slow. Hesitant. Too human to be stealthy.

You wait, breath caught, listening for the shuffle of shoes across the hardwood.

“Don’t freak out,” comes a voice, rough and russian and just the tiniest bit sheepish.

You spin around.

Shiv is there. Shirt torn, sleeve soaked in blood, hair sticking up in dramatic angles as if it had a say in this, one hand pressed to his side. And yet… somehow he’s trying to smile.

“I’m fine, baby. Really,” he says, voice way too casual for someone who clearly isn’t fine. “Mostly fine. Like… not-dead fine.”

You take a step toward him, eyebrows arched. “Mostly fine?”

He shrugs, flinches at his own movement. “Okay, okay, slightly not fine. But I got this. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes and gently grab his arm. He lets you. That’s when he lets the joke drop and something more real slips in.

“Sit,” you order.

“M’good—”

“Shiv.”

“…Fine, fine. Sitting.”

He sinks into the chair like he’s made of lead, groaning for dramatic effect. You kneel in front of him, unsure where to start. Hands hover. Don’t touch wrong. Don’t make it worse.

He watches you, quiet now, letting the chaos of the world fade.

“Didn’t mean to worry you,” he mutters.

“They always get messy.”

“Yeah, but… usually I’m less… decorative.” He gestures vaguely at the blood and torn shirt. “Thought I’d mix it up.”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Your ridiculous,” he corrects, grinning a little.

Then his face softens, the humor slipping away.

“You weren’t gonna come back,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick up, guilt and something else shining there. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You don’t always get a choice,” you whisper.

He exhales and reaches out, resting his hand on yours. “I keep thinking I can keep this side separate. Protect you from it. But maybe… maybe I’m lying to myself.”

You squeeze his hand. “Maybe. But I still want all of you. Even the stupid, bloody, dramatic parts.”

He then smiles that stupid smirk of his with a soft noise in between a scoff and a laugh before fluttering his bruised eyes closed, letting you treat him. Like you always have. Like you always will when things get bad. You were his safe space and what felt like to him, the only thing good left in his life.