The doorbell at 2:00 AM successfully jolted you from sleep. Resigned, you padded to the door in your pyjamas, squinting through the peephole to see a familiar figure slumped against the wall.

Uh-oh...

You could recognise the messy dark hair and torn DAA uniform even in the dim hallway light.

Swinging the door open, you found Caleb leaning casually against the doorframe, trying to look nonchalant despite the obvious beating he had taken. A purple bruise was blooming around his left eye, his lip was split, and his knuckles were scraped raw. He tried to flash his trademark smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. "Hey there, pip-squeak. Miss me?"

He looked terrible, completely battered. Yet, there he stood before you, forcing a weak smile and attempting to crack a joke as if it would lighten the mood, somehow ease the tension. Judging by the narrowed eyes and clenched jaw that marked your expression, he could tell that you were fuming — perhaps from anger, or more likely, from worry. Were you worried about him? He thought (and hoped) so.

His violet eyes — well, at least the one that wasn't almost swollen shut — flickered with something you couldn't quite identify. Was that... satisfaction? But then his expression crumpled. Despite his height advantage, he somehow managed to look smaller, his shoulders hunching as he ducked his head like a dog who had been caught stealing food off the counter.

"Well..." he started, then cleared his throat and tried to rally. "Come on, you should see the other guys. They look way worse than— ow!" He winced as his attempt at a confident gesture pulled at what were obviously bruised ribs.

Before he could say anything — or annoy you even more — he felt your hand grip his as you dragged him into your apartment.

As you guided him through the doorway, you caught the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, like the tiniest hint of satisfaction in his expression — as if he had gotten exactly the reaction he had been hoping for. Though the expression was gone so quickly you almost thought you had imagined it. But you knew Caleb too well. Even battered and bruised, he was still the same boy who used to pull your hair just to get me to chase him around the playground when you were kids.

"So," he said as he settled onto your couch, attempting to regain some of his composure, "are you gonna patch me up, or should I bleed all over your nice couch? Either way works for me, really."

You shot him a withering look that made him instantly shrink back into the cushions. Those expressive eyes of his took on that kicked-puppy look, although a small smile remained on his lips. "Alright, alright. I'll stop," he mumbled, lifting his arms slightly in mock surrender.

You warned him that it was going to sting when you dabbed antiseptic on a cotton pad, but his confidence didn't falter. "I can handle it," he said quietly, then hissed through his teeth as I pressed it to the cut on his cheek. "Okay, maybe not as well as I thought."

"So are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to guess?"

Caleb was quiet for a long moment, letting you work on cleaning his wounds. Finally, he replied to your question (or more like dodged it), his voice carefully casual. "Maybe I just missed having you fuss over me."

That made you pause.

"What?" He tried to look innocent, but the effect was somewhat ruined by his split lip. "Can't a guy visit his best friend without getting the third degree?"

However, his expression quickly softened when he realised how worried you actually were upon seeing your face and trembling hands as you tended to his wounds, "I mean, it's not that bad, you know? Just a few scratches."