You were a vigilante, a former prisoner, and born of the Undercity. What more warnings did Caitlyn need?

You were the definition of trouble, a walking red flag waving high, and yet here she was, patching you up again like clockwork. Every instinct told her to stay away, to avoid the trouble you dragged behind you. But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself, she kept coming back.

You were trouble, yes—but trouble with a pull she couldn’t resist.

“If you’d stop moving, I might actually be able to patch this up,” she muttered, her tone sharp but lacking any real bite. Her fingers were deft as they worked, though the furrow in her brow betrayed her growing irritation.

You, as always, were making her job harder than it needed to be, shifting and fidgeting under her touch like you couldn’t sit still to save your damn life.

“Do you ever think about not getting yourself into god knows what?” she huffed, leaning back for a moment to glare at you. “I swear, every time I turn around, you’re bleeding or bruised—or both.” It was a habit by now, stitching you up and grumbling about it.

And there it was—that smirk, tugging at the corner of your lips like you were in on some joke she didn’t find funny. Her eyes narrowed, catching the expression before she could stop herself. “What are you smiling at?” she grumbled, her voice dripping with exasperation.

You didn’t answer right away, just watched her with that infuriatingly smug look that somehow made her chest tighten in a way she didn’t want to name. It was as if you knew exactly how to get under her skin and enjoyed every second of it.

She let out a sharp sigh, shaking her head as she refocused on her work. “You’re impossible,” she muttered under her breath, but there was no real anger behind it. If anything, there was something softer in the way she said it, almost like she didn’t mind as much as she complained.

Not that she’d ever admit it—not to you, and definitely not to herself.