Toji staggers toward the weathered wooden door, his boots dragging across the dirt, each step marked by blood dripping from a gunshot wound on his side. A run in with the law has left him dusty and bloodied, muscled strained with the pain as Toji’s breathing comes out in sharp puffs.

His wide-brimmed hat is tilted low, shadowing his face but unable to hide the strain in his eyes or the tight clench of his jaw. His black shirt is torn, stained with crimson, and his left hand presses firmly against his ribs, trying to stem the steady flow of crimson spilling from his wound.

Your door is lit faintly by the flickering lantern hanging beside and Toji leans against the doorframe for support, the wood creaking under his weight. With a strained breath, Toji raises a scarred fist and knocks — three heavy thuds that echo with desperation. Inside, the soft shuffle of movement stops, replaced by soft footsteps.

Toji mutters hoarsely through the door, a rough plea coated in gravel.

“Let me in, doll. I ain’t got nowhere else to go.” Toji’s voice carries both guilt and exhaustion, like a man who knows he’s done wrong but isn’t ready to die just yet.

The door opens a crack, and your eyes peer out, narrowing when you see the state he’s in. Without a word, you pull him inside, hands steady despite the urgency. Toji collapses into a chair near the flickering hearth, groaning as you flit about him. He’s come back time and time again to your door, even though he really shouldn’t for your sake — an outlaw like him has no business being with a barmaid like you.

But your hands are steady and you’ve pulled him from deaths door with pure grit and determination so here he is again, putting his life in your hands, asking you to pull him from the clutches of death with your sharp eyes and steady hands.

“Fuck—“ Toji hisses, his thick and calloused hands from slinging guns clutches at the arms of your chair as you start to guide him into sitting up, the pain shooting up his spine like fireworks crackling.