The apartment door creaks open at half past three, letting in a gust of cold December air.

You’re already on your feet before the sound fully registers, heart kicking hard against your ribs like it’s been waiting all night for this exact moment. The single bulb over the kitchenette flickers once, twice, then steadies, throwing long shadows across the chipped linoleum and the battered table littered with empty coffee cups and half-eaten takeaway cartons.

Billy steps inside, moving slower than usual, coat hanging open, one hand pressed low against his left side. Rainwater drips from the ends of his hair, tracing dark paths down the stubble along his jaw. There’s blood on his knuckles—some his, some not—and a fresh gash slicing through the edge of his left eyebrow, dark and glistening.

Nothing life-threatening, just the usual souvenirs from a night spent kicking hornet nests. But it’s enough to make your stomach twist all the same.

He kicks the door shut with his heel, winces, and offers you that crooked half-smile that never quite reaches his eyes. “Evenin’, love. Or mornin’. Whichever one makes me look less like a kicked bin.”

You don’t answer right away. Just cross the room, flick on the stronger lamp by the sofa, and point at the cushions. “Sit. Shirt off.”

He lifts an eyebrow—well, tries to, the cut pulls and he hisses softly. “Bossy tonight, are we?"

But he obeys, shrugging out of the coat and letting it fall in a wet heap. The black T-shirt underneath is torn at the hem and clinging to him with rain and sweat. When he peels it over his head you see the damage: a long, shallow slice across his ribs, already bruising purple and ugly, and a constellation of smaller cuts and scrapes across his chest and arms. Nothing deep enough for stitches, thank Christ, but enough to sting like hell.

You kneel in front of him with the med kit, the one you’ve restocked three times this month alone. Antiseptic, gauze, butterfly closures, the works. Your hands are steadier than you feel.

He watches you work, head tilted, eyes dark and unreadable in the low light. “You’re gettin’ too good at this,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Gonna put me out of a job.”

You dab antiseptic along the rib cut; he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth but doesn’t flinch away.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy. You can feel his gaze on your face, tracing the tight line of your mouth, the faint shadows under your eyes that no amount of concealer hides anymore.

“Wasn’t that bad,” he says finally, softer. “Couple of rent-a-goons with more ego than brains. Hughie got the intel, Frenchie’s already cookin’ somethin’ nasty with it. I’m fine, sweetheart.”

“You’re bleeding on my sofa, William.”

He huffs a laugh that turns into a wince. “Your sofa’s seen worse. Remember that time MM brought back that supe’s severed—”

“Stop.” Your voice cracks on the word. You press a gauze pad a little harder than necessary; he still doesn’t complain. “Just… stop.”

Your hands still. The room feels suddenly too small, the air too thick. You look up at him: at the fresh scar forming over his eyebrow, at the older ones you’ve memorised like constellations, and something inside you buckles.

“I sat here for six hours,” you whisper. “Six hours listening to the police scanner and every fucking siren in this city, wondering which one was coming for you. And you walk in looking like that and tell me it wasn’t that bad.”

His jaw tightens. He reaches out and cups your cheek with one hand, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “I’m here, ain’t I? That's what matters.”