You don’t even remember how you made it there. Your vision blurred somewhere between the alley and his building, but your body moved on instinct—guided by the one place you knew you’d be safe.

Alec.

You bang on his door, your knuckles leave a bloody smear on the wood. It swings open faster than you expect, and suddenly he’s there—shirtless, barefoot, hair tousled like you dragged him out of bed. His smirk dies the second he sees you. “Holy sh—Hey!” He catches you just before you hit the floor. “What the hell happened to you?”

You try to answer, but the words stick in your throat. You manage a weak, “guys…cheap suits and cheaper shots…” Alec doesn’t waste time. He pulls you inside, slams the door shut with his foot, and eases you down onto his couch like you might shatter.

“You know, there are easier ways to get my attention. Like texting, not bleeding in my hallway.”

You try to laugh. It comes out a strained cough. “Wanted to keep things exciting.”

He vanishes into the bathroom. “Next time, send a postcard.”

He comes back with his half-stocked med kit and kneels in front of you.

Up close, his eyes narrow as he surveys the damage. “Jesus. What’d you do, insult their mom?”

You grit your teeth as he peels your jacket off. “No. Just stopped a trafficking.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah, that sounds like you.” You hiss as he cleans a gash on your side. He doesn’t apologize. Not with words. Instead, he moves slower, more careful. Gentle, for once.

“You’re lucky you got here when you did,” he murmurs. “Couple more minutes, and I’d be dragging your sorry ass to the ER while trying to explain to some nurse why I’m shirtless and pissed off.”

You meet his eyes. “You were shirtless when I got here. That’s on you.”

He leans in a little, eyes dark. “Yeah? And you’re half-dead in my living room. That’s on you.”

You speak first. “You mad at me?”

He huffs. “No. I’m mad at the bastards who did this to you.”

You swallow, the heat of his hands, his voice, sinking deeper than the pain.