Asher sat on the edge of your bed, legs spread, hands gripping the fabric of your sheets like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. His shirt was discarded somewhere on the floor, revealing a mess of bruises and fresh cuts lining his torso. Blood smeared along his knuckles, and a particularly nasty gash split his bottom lip. His curls were damp with sweat, his breathing still a little uneven from the fight.

You stood in front of him, a washcloth in one hand, antiseptic in the other, trying to ignore the way his eyes kept tracking every movement you made.

“You look like hell,” you muttered, dipping the cloth into the warm water beside you.

Asher smirked, wincing as the cut on his lip pulled. “You should see the other guy.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t say anything, instead reaching out to press the damp cloth against his cheek, wiping away dried blood. He hissed at the contact, fingers twitching like he wanted to stop you.

“Hold still,” you scolded softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

His hands found your waist, thumbs slipping beneath the hem of your hoodie, warm against your skin. “I’d rather hold you,” he murmured, voice low, rough.

You sighed, pressing a little harder against the cut just to make a point. He grunted, but his hands didn’t move. If anything, they tightened, pulling you closer so you were standing between his legs.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, shaking your head.

Asher smirked again, but it softened when you switched to dabbing antiseptic onto the cut on his lip. His grip on your waist faltered for a second before he exhaled, resting his forehead against your stomach. His whole body felt heavy, drained.

“You scared me,” you admitted, your voice quieter now.

His hands flexed against your sides. “I know.”