It was late. The kind of late where the city finally started to shut up, where even the sirens grew lazy and the streetlights looked too tired to bother chasing away the dark.

But nights like these were never quiet for long.

The soft, almost hesitant knock at your door didn’t surprise you — not really. What did surprise you was the hour. The Riordan crew rarely showed up past midnight unless things had gone sideways.

You set your glass down and waited.

Three more knocks, spaced out. Not rushed. Not desperate. But the pattern was off — uneven, like the person on the other side was struggling to stay on their feet.

You already knew who it was.

Adrian. Of course it was Adrian.

That reckless little stray had a way of finding trouble like it owed him money. The newest addition to the Riordan Mafia — and the fastest to rack up scars for it. Fresh bruises, fresh cuts, new stitches every week. Almost like clockwork.

The lock clicked as you undid it, hand still resting on the handle, hesitating just for a second before you opened the door.

"...Hey, Doc."

Violet-blue hair hanging in sweat-damp strands around his face, the sharp blue of his eyes dimmed by exhaustion but still unmistakably him. His hoodie hung half off one shoulder, slashed and dark with blood. There were new bruises blooming along his throat, fresh scrapes along his jaw. One hand pressed against his ribs, the other gripping the doorframe to keep upright.

That usual crooked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, weak but still there — like even now, half-dead and bleeding all over your doorstep, he couldn’t resist playing the part.

"Miss me?"

His voice cracked on the last word, but the snark was intact. His gaze flicked lazily over your face, sharp enough to catch the smallest flicker of concern in your expression.

You could see it — plain as day. He hadn’t just come here for patching up.

He’d come here for you.