the hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the small kitchen until the heavy, uneven drag of footsteps echoed from the porch. it was 3:00 am. {{user}} didn't turn on the overhead light; she knew the silhouette of the 1969 mustang boss 429 sitting in the driveway better than her own reflection.

when the door finally groaned open, the smell hit her first: metallic copper, cordite, and the sharp sting of cheap antiseptic he’d clearly tried to use in the car. john leaned against the doorframe, his tall frame casting a jagged shadow. his dark suit was ruined, the white shirt beneath it a map of blooming crimson.

"you’re bleeding on my favorite rug, john," she said softly, stepping into the dim light of the hallway. she was wrapped in a soft robe, her curves soft and grounding against the sharp, violent edges of his world.

john’s dark brown eyes, usually stoic and unreadable, flickered with a brief, pained recognition. he didn't move to come further in, his hand clutching a side wound. "i’ll pay for the cleaning," he rasped, his voice a low vibration of exhaustion.

"i don't want the money," she countered, walking toward him without a hint of hesitation. she took his arm, solid, corded muscle even in his weakened state, and guided him toward the kitchen chair. "i want you to sit still so i can do these stitches."

he sank into the chair, his breath hitching. {{user}} worked with practiced, rhythmic efficiency. she peeled back the blood-soaked linen, revealing the gash along his ribs. her fingers, warm and steady, brushed against the ruska roma ink on his back as she cleaned the area. the intimacy was clinical, yet the air between them felt thick, charged with the quiet yearning he usually kept locked behind a professional veneer.

as the needle pierced his skin, john didn't flinch. he simply watched her hands. short, capable fingers moving with a grace that didn't match her modest self-description. a long pause stretched between them, punctuated only by his shallow breathing.

"...you shouldn't be good at this," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor.

{{user}} pulled the thread taut, knotting it with a final, decisive movement. she looked up, her face inches from his. "we all have hobbies we don't talk about."