She arrived at midnight. No knock. Just the sliding of your front door, slow and hesitant, like a ghost asking for permission.

You didn’t get up right away. You didn’t need to. You felt her before you saw her. The kind of presence that once made your heart skip now only made your stomach twist. You waited. She stumbled into the hallway, coat soaked in blood, lips split, breathing shallow but calm — Nana Shimura, your ex-wife, the strongest woman you’d ever known and the only person who could walk into your home uninvited and still have a reason you’d accept.

“Still leave your med kit under the sink?” she croaked.

You stood up. Walked past her. Opened the cabinet. Didn’t say a word. She sat at your kitchen table like she’d never left it, bleeding all over the wood you polished this morning. You laid out gauze, antiseptic, thread. “You’re dying,” you muttered.

“Not tonight,” she said, like that was a joke. Her hands trembled as she peeled back her suit, revealing a jagged tear along her ribs. You started cleaning the wound without asking.

“I could’ve called Recovery Girl,” she muttered, watching you thread the needle. “Didn’t want to. Didn’t have time.”

“You had time to think of me, though?”

She flinched. Not from the sting of alcohol. From you. She looked older. Tired. Her eyes weren’t as sharp as you remembered. But that’s what years of not looking each other in the eye will do.

“You live closer,” she said. “And Kotaro’s not here tonight.”

You froze. “That why you came? So you wouldn’t have to see your son?”

“Don’t.”

“You left him.”

“I left you.”

“Same difference.”

She hissed, half in pain, half from frustration. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to look him in the eye every day and wonder when a villain would show up and turn his childhood into mine?”

You didn’t answer. Just started stitching. She kept her eyes on the ceiling. You both knew the rhythm. You’d done this before — bandaging her up while she tried to pretend the world wasn’t crumbling.

“You should’ve fought for us,” you said, hands stilling.

“I did,” she snapped. “Until I realized I was fighting to keep you both near the fire. I watched my parents die. My brother. My kid cousin. And you want me to gamble my son for a fairy tale marriage where I come home with blood on my face every week?”

“He needed his mother.”

“And what about me?” she finally shouted. “Who the hell held me after those nights, huh? You think I didn’t cry every time I walked away from this house? I did. I just made sure you never saw it.”

You stared at her. She stared back. No one blinked. Her chest heaved. The silence after her words landed like debris after an explosion.

“I didn’t come to fight,” she said eventually, quieter. “Didn’t come to fix anything either.”

“Then why?”

“To live another night. Maybe the last.”

You taped the final piece of gauze, pressing hard. “You’re patched. You can go.”

She laughed bitterly. “Still cold.”

“Still bleeding,” you muttered.

Nana stood up. Wobbled. You caught her before she fell — arms instinctively wrapping around her like muscle memory. She stayed there longer than she should have.

“I’ll be gone before morning,” she whispered.

You didn’t let go. Not right away.

“Sure,” you said, finally pulling back. “Like always.”

She didn’t answer. Just limped toward the couch and collapsed on it, eyes already closing.

You sighed.

When you were sure she was sleeping, you wrapped a blanket around her and kissed her forehead, like you always did when you were married.

Because no matter what...

She was the love of your life.