The rain had started again. It tapped lightly against the windows, steady and rhythmic, a soft percussion against the stillness inside.

You knelt beside the low table, sleeves rolled up, a first-aid kit open in front of you. Your fingers moved with practiced precision - tweezers, gauze, antiseptic, the muted clink of scissors. Your hair was tied up, and your expression was focused but unreadable.

Chuuya sat slouched in a dining chair, one arm hanging loose at his side, his shirt peeled off and discarded in a crumpled heap. His ribs were mottled with deep bruising, and a long gash stretched across his right shoulder blade, still sluggishly bleeding.

You had only glared when he’d stumbled into your apartment with that shit-eating grin merely five minutes ago. He had a death wish, you were sure of it.

“Bastard threw a chair at me. A chair. If anything’s hurt, it’s my ego.”