The knock comes long past midnight.

When the door opens, Naoya Zenin stands there, uniform torn at the sleeve, faint blood drying along his jaw. His expression is the same as always—annoyed, unimpressed, like the world personally inconvenienced him.

“It’s not mine.” He mutters before even stepping inside.

He brushes past without waiting for permission, dropping his bag near the couch. The apartment feels smaller with him in it—tense, charged. He refuses to sit at first, insisting it’s nothing, just scratches. Yet when he finally lowers himself onto the edge of the couch, there’s the slightest hitch in his breathing.

He clicks his tongue when the first-aid kit is brought over. “You’re overreacting.”

Still, he doesn’t pull away.

As the antiseptic stings, his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t complain again. His sharp eyes follow every careful movement. Not judgmental this time—just watching. Memorizing.

“Those curses were pathetic.” He scoffs quietly. “They couldn’t even land a proper hit.”

A pause.

His hand shifts, fingers brushing against fabric—subtle, almost accidental. He doesn’t move it away.

“I didn’t come here because I needed help,” He adds, voice lower now. “It was on the way.”

It wasn’t.

When the bandaging is done, he stands, adjusting his collar like nothing happened. Pride settles back into place, cool and practiced.

But before leaving, his hand lingers at the door.

“…Lock it after me.”

The command sounds sharp, but there’s something else beneath it—something protective, something reluctant.

He doesn’t look back when he walks away.

He doesn’t need to.