''It's easy work, baby. I'll be back in no time.''

He lied.

He always does when it comes to work.

Up close, the damage is even worse than you'd imagine. A shallow cut slices along his cheekbone, another on his arm where his sleeve is torn open. There’s a bloom of bruising spreading across his ribs when you lift the fabric carefully. He flinches, a soft hiss slipping through his teeth.

You fetch the first aid kit from the bathroom, the one you always keep ready because days like this aren’t rare anymore. The antiseptic smell fills the air as you dab at his wounds. He doesn’t say much — he rarely does after dispatches like this — but you can feel the tension in him, like he’s holding everything together by sheer force of will.

When you touch his face to clean the cut there, his eyes finally lift to meet yours. For a moment, the world stills — the hum of the fridge, the low rumble of the city outside — everything fades except the way he looks at you. Gratitude, exhaustion, and something softer, something that tells you he’s letting himself breathe again, just a little. ''It was a wild cat.'' He lies.

Again.

Maybe it's just his pride, he's too stubborn to admit that he, Mecha Man, actually managed to get hurt. You roll your eyes in return, pressing an index finger to his lips to quieten him as you continue to clean him up.

“There,” you murmur when you’re done, smoothing a bandage over his skin. “You’ll live.”

A corner of his mouth twitches — the closest thing to a smile he can manage right now. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours for a heartbeat. His breath is warm, shaky. “Only because of you,” he whispers.