The knock on your door doesn’t sound like knocking at all; more like someone leaning their weight into the wood, testing whether it’ll give. Another hit follows, then another and you know that rhythm. You spent years trying to forget it.

Smoke.

Your stomach drops, but your body moves on instinct, checking the peephole even though you already know. He’s standing there in the hallway, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other hanging loose at his side. There’s something dark smeared across his shirt, blood, definitely blood, but you can’t tell whose.

When you open the door, he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t swagger like he usually does. Doesn’t give you that grin that used to piss you off so bad you’d slam doors in his face. Tonight he just looks… tired. Tired in a way that says everything is worse than you think.

Smoke steps inside without waiting for permission, brushing past you with the same ghost of confidence he always carries, but weaker, thinner. “Don’t freak out,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “I just needed somewhere to stop before things get worse.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly the sound of your heartbeat is louder than the hallway. You stare at him, taking in the half-limp, the shallow breathing, the way he keeps his fingers pressed to that wound like it’s the only thing holding him upright. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t ask. He just stands in the middle of your living room like he’s ready to bolt at the slightest sign you’ll throw him out.

Your father warned you about this; about Smoke and his chaos, about the kind of people he ran with, about the deals that went wrong because of him. The deal that nearly got you killed. The memory flashes through you like a blade: the other gang, the shouting, your hands tied behind your back because Smoke’s promises were worth nothing to them. You haven’t forgiven him. You’re not sure you ever will.

But he’s here, bleeding, and you’re not heartless.

Smoke finally looks at you, really looks, like he’s trying to measure how much you hate him tonight. “I didn’t come here to drag you into shit again,” he says, wiping at his brow with the back of his arm. “I just… needed someone who wouldn’t finish the job.”

The implication hangs there. Someone tried to kill him. Someone almost succeeded.

He winces, breath catching, and his hand slips away from his side just long enough for you to see the gash beneath; deep, ugly, still bleeding through the makeshift bandage. He tries to adjust his stance like he’s fine, like he always does, but his legs tremble.

“You still got that first-aid kit?” he asks quietly. “Or am I screwed?” He’s trying to sound casual but he’s failing.

You stand there, torn between the memory of what he put you through and the sight of him now: bruised, bleeding, desperate enough to come to the person with every reason to throw him into the street. The air between you feels like glass; sharp, fragile, dangerous to breathe.

He shifts his weight and nearly stumbles, catching himself on the back of your couch. “Just for tonight,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “I won’t stay longer than that. I swear.”

It’s the closest thing to an apology you’ve ever heard from him.