You were in the kitchen when the knock came. Just three slow taps, like he didn’t have the strength for more.

You didn’t expect anyone tonight.

When you opened the door, he was leaning against the frame, one hand clutched to his side. His shirt was soaked through, deep red. No words. Just that look, half-apology, half-don’t ask.

“Clint?” Your voice cracked before you could stop it.

He gave a weak nod, jaw tight. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You stepped back without thinking. He stumbled in.

Your place was small. Quiet. A shoebox apartment that smelled like lemon cleaner and coffee grounds. He hadn’t been here in weeks, maybe months, and now he was bleeding all over your floor like it was nothing.

“Sit down,” you ordered, grabbing the first towel you could reach. “What the hell happened?”

He didn’t answer. Just sank into the chair by the window, blood dripping through his fingers onto the wood.

His breathing was shallow. Fast.

You pressed the towel to his wound, and he flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“It’s not deep,” he muttered. “Just messy.”

The silence after that was thick. You held the pressure steady, trying not to focus on the way his hand was still wrapped around your wrist. Firm. Grounded. Like you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.