He’s bleeding all over your couch, looking far too nonchalant. “Sorry about all this,” he grunts, pressing a hand to the bullet on his side. “Your house was closer, so…”

Mista flashes a grin, hoping to not anger you further. He’d broken up with you two months ago, saying he had to go on some dangerous mission and probably wouldn’t make it back alive. But here he is, bleeding, and very much living. “Could you help me out?” he asks, ignoring how awkward he feels. “For old time’s sake?”