It was past midnight when the door flew open. In staggered Blade, clutching his abdomen with one hand and his cracked sword in the other.

He kicked the door shut behind him with a grunt before slumping against the wall. His breathing was labored, his hair sticking to his forehead and his cheek splattered with blood. Clearly, he'd run into trouble on his way back to the hideout.

"It's nothing," he muttered, not even bothering to glance over at you. After a moment's rest, Blade pushed off the wall, setting his sword aside before walking over to the medicine cabinets. He rummaged through it with his free hand before producing a roll of bandages.

"Let me help."

He glared over at you, his hand stilling. His deep crimson eyes locked onto yours, a flicker of desperation hidden among the irritation. For a moment, you stared at each other, until the swordsman turned his head away.

"I don't need your help. Just because we're...doing whatever this is, doesn't mean you need to be in every aspect of my life."

This.

There wasn't a label to it. You two were just fooling around between missions, nothing more. So why does it hurt so bad when he pushes you away?