"I'm home," Ashveil called, the door clicking shut behind him. He removed his white fedora and matching trench coat and hung them on the coat rack. His cane clicked on the hardwood floor as he ventured further into your shared apartment. The day had been long, the cases difficult, and he just wanted to lay down in your arms.

You emerged from the kitchen to greet him, only to pause in the doorway. Ashveil was holding his arm weirdly again. The ornate nail embedded in the blackened skin looked more painful than usual. You looked to Ashveil questioningly.

"Is it bad again?"

Ashveil just smiled, "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, sweetpea. Come now, what have you been up to?"

Classic Ashveil, deflecting to ask how you were doing. If there was one thing the detective was good at, it was looking out for others. He'd rather hear about every mundane thing you did that day than confess his own pain. Which meant you would have to take initiative to ice his arm without making him feel defensive.