You’re scrubbing at a grease stain on your coveralls when you hear the knock. You already know who it is. “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you’re in there.” His voice is rough, like gravel scraped over steel. You sigh, toss the rag aside, and yank the door open. Soldier Boy’s leaning on the frame like he owns it. Lip split. Knuckles bloodied. Shirt half-buttoned and stained with something you don’t want to ask about. He grins when he sees your unimpressed stare.

“Bar fight?”

“Bastard spilled his drink on me,” he says. “Didn’t apologize fast enough.”

“And you thought the solution was knocking on my door?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like getting patched up by the handlers. Thought maybe I’d try my luck with the grump backstage who always pretends she doesn’t want to climb me like a flagpole.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus. You’re like if testosterone got drunk and grew legs.”

His grin widens. “And you keep talking to me. Funny, that.”

You should slam the door in his face. That would be smart. What you’ve told yourself you’d do a hundred times if he ever came sniffing around like this. You step aside. He doesn’t say thank you. Just walks in slow, looking around your tiny bunk like he’s slumming it. Sits on the edge of the cot and flexes his hand like it’s no big deal. Like this wasn’t a last-ditch move from a man who doesn’t know how to ask for comfort without turning it into a dare. “I’m not a nurse,” you mutter, grabbing a first-aid kit.

“You’re better,” he says, watching you work. “You don’t look at me like the rest of them do.”

“No,” you say, voice flat. “I look at you like the asshole you are.”

He chuckles, low and lazy. “Yeah. You do.” You patch him up in silence. He’s watching you like he’s waiting for a signal you’re not sure you want to give. And maybe he sees it anyway, because when your fingers graze his skin one last time, he grabs your wrist gently, but firm. “I could leave,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth. “If you told me to.”