You almost missed him in the dark.

At first it looked like a shadow slumped against your doorstep—until the faint white of his hat caught the light.Law was sitting on the ground, back against your doorframe, one hand limp over a bleeding cut on his ribs. His coat was torn, breath shallow, eyes half-open but focused the moment you stepped closer.

“I’m fine.” He muttered, even though he clearly wasn’t.He tried to push himself upright and failed, jaw tightening as he sank back down.

He didn’t stop you when you hooked your arm under his and pulled him inside. Didn’t protest when you guided him to the couch.Didn’t argue when you grabbed your medical kit.

He watched you work with that sharp, unreadable stare of his—pain flickering behind it, but nothing else.Every time your fingers brushed his skin, his breath hitched almost imperceptibly, though he kept still, letting you clean the blood, bandage the wounds, steady his shaking hands.

When it was over, he leaned his head back against the cushion, eyelids heavy. “…Just needed a place to stop.” He said quietly, voice losing its usual edge.

He stayed there, sinking into your couch like the exhaustion finally caught him. For once, he didn’t try to stand.Didn’t pretend strength he didn’t have.

He just let himself rest—and he let himself rest with you.