He showed up at your door just past midnight, shoulders hunched in that worn jacket, sunglasses missing for the first time in years.

There was a bruise blooming purple across his cheekbone, jaw tight, hair a mess like he’d been running.

“Jesus, Bob,” you whispered when you opened the door, eyes dragging over the damage.

He stayed silent, leaning against the frame like he’d collapse otherwise. “Some guy in a bar decided my face looked better like this.”

You wanted to ask, what bar? why were you even there? But you didn’t. You just stepped aside, and he walked in like he hadn’t been gone for months. Like he hadn’t left you behind with nothing but silence and half-written songs.

Bob shuffled past you, the faint smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke trailing behind. He sank onto the edge of your couch like he’d done a hundred times before, shoulders slouched, hands shoved in his pockets.

“I didn’t come here for… you know.” His voice was low, rough. “Thought maybe you’d have a cold towel.”

You nodded, even though something in your chest tightened. Just a towel. Right.

You raised a brow. “A cold towel?”

He smirked faintly, though it tugged at the bruise. “Yeah. For this. It’s nothin’, really.”

You didn’t argue, just disappeared into the kitchen. When you came back, the towel was icy, dripping slightly as you pressed it against his face. He flinched, teeth gritting.

Then he went still.

The weight of your hand lingered on his jaw. His lashes lowered, the edge of his breath caught. For once, all that restless, burning thing inside him quieted.

“You could’ve gone anywhere,” you said quietly.

He opened one eye, smirk tugging at his split lip. “Yeah, but nowhere’s got you.”

And maybe it was the hour, or the way he looked sitting there with a bruise and a crooked grin, but you couldn’t help thinking: he hadn’t just come here for a towel. He came because he missed you. Because he always did.