Wayne sat on the curb, knuckles still raw and split from the fight he barely remembered starting. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, his head tipped back just enough to let the night air cool the heat simmering under his skin.

{{user}} dropped down next to him, close enough that their shoulders touched. He didn’t say anything right away—just pulled a crumpled napkin from his pocket and started wiping the blood off Wayne’s fingers like it was routine. Because it was.

“You know,” {{user}} finally muttered, glancing at Wayne’s bruised face, “one day, you’re gonna have to stop trying to solve everything with your fists.”

Wayne huffed, something close to a laugh, but not quite. “Dunno how else to fix shit.”