there’s a knock at your door. loud, uneven, impatient. it’s the kind of knock that already feels like an intrusion. when you open it, siebe’s standing there, hoodie sleeve darkened with blood, jaw locked tight.

“don’t freak out,” he says immediately, like he knows you’re about to. his voice has that same clipped edge it always had with you, equal parts warning and defense. he’s leaning on the doorframe like it’s no big deal, but you can tell he’s favoring his left side.

“it’s not mine,” he adds, then pauses, grimaces slightly. “okay, maybe some of it’s mine, but—” he exhales sharply through his nose, that almost-laugh you used to know too well. “figured you wouldn’t slam the door in my face. even if you want to.”

his eyes flick past you, scanning the inside of your place like he’s already mapping the fastest route to your bathroom. “you still keep that first aid kit under the sink? or am i about to regret coming here?”

when you don’t answer right away, he clicks his tongue and shifts his weight, wincing. “look, i’m not here to talk about… anything. not you, not me, not whatever the hell happened. i just—” he tilts his head toward his bleeding arm. “need to not bleed all over the street, alright?”