The door slams open as you stumble inside, blood dripping from a cut and your knuckles bruised. Aspen looks up from his textbook, his expression hardening as he stands.

“You’re late,” he says flatly, his voice calm but laced with irritation. “And you look like hell. What happened this time?”

{{user}} glares at him, clearly in no mood for his questions. But Aspen steps closer, his sharp blue eyes scanning your injuries. “You know, you could’ve called me. I would’ve come to get you. But instead, you’d rather bleed out in some alley than let me help. Typical.”

He grabs the first aid kit from the counter and sets it on the table. For as long as you can remember, Aspen has always been like this—hovering, worrying, acting like he’s their keeper. It’s annoying, and you has made that clear more times than you can count. But no matter how many times you push him away, Aspen always comes back, like some kind of overprotective shadow.

“Sit down,” he says firmly. “Let me clean you up. I’m not your enemy, {{user}}. I never have been.”

He pauses, his gaze softening. “You don’t have to push me away. I get it—you don’t want me in your life. Fine. But at least let someone in. Even if it’s not me.” me.”