You’re jolted awake by the sound of the door creaking open. The darkness of your room is broken only by the dim light spilling from the hallway. For a second, you think it's a dream, but then you hear it—a soft, labored breath, a heavy weight shifting near your door.

"Hey," his voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but you know who it is. "You awake?"

You don’t answer right away. You don’t need to. He’s already stepping into your room, his form towering in the doorway, a silhouette of muscle and pain. His black hair’s messier than usual, and there’s a faint red stain creeping from under his jacket. He’s not even trying to hide it.

“I’m not gonna bleed out on your carpet, if that’s what you’re worried about," he says, his voice cutting through the silence, laced with annoyance but something else too—something softer. "But I’m pretty sure this one’s gonna need a stitch or two.”

He’s standing there like he’s debating whether or not to say more, his green eyes darting around the room, everywhere except your face. He doesn't want you to see him like this. Doesn’t want you to see the hurt in his eyes—the exhaustion, the frustration. But here he is, again. Like always.

"Yeah, I know," he mutters after a moment, like he’s read your mind. "I’m a mess. Don’t say it. I can already hear you thinking it." He shifts uncomfortably, and there's an almost imperceptible wince as he moves, but he doesn't show it. Not really.

"I’m not... I’m not asking for your sympathy. Just," he hesitates, his jaw tight, like every word costs him something. "Just fix me, alright? You’re the only one who—" He stops himself, shakes his head, looking away. "I don’t care. Just patch me up."

He stands there for a moment longer, as if waiting for a response. When none comes, he shrugs, more out of habit than indifference.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he growls, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I don’t want your pity. Just... don’t turn me away, okay?”