The first thing you notice when Rafe walks into your house is the blood.

Not enough to send him to a hospital, at least not by his standards, but enough to soak through the front of his white button-up in uneven dark stains that spread across expensive fabric like spilled wine. He doesn’t knock before coming in. Doesn’t call ahead. Doesn’t even really acknowledge the fact he’s bleeding as he shuts the front door behind him and heads straight toward your kitchen like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“You still got that expensive bourbon,” he asks while opening your fridge one-handed, voice rough and irritated more than anything else, “or did you finally develop actual taste?”

You stare at him across the room for a second because he genuinely looks insane standing there. Hair messy like somebody grabbed him hard enough to ruin it. Gold rings stained with drying blood. Expensive watch still ticking calmly beneath bruised knuckles. Breathing slightly uneven under all that fake composure he wears like armor.

“Rafe.”

“What?” he says distractedly, finally abandoning the fridge in favor of your liquor cabinet. “You’re lookin’ at me like I dragged a body in here.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

“Yeah, well. The other guy’s probably havin’ a worse night than me.”

The sarcasm lands automatically, instinctive and sharp, but you still catch the exhaustion underneath it. That’s the thing about Rafe. Humor for him isn’t bright like JJ’s. It’s bitter. Defensive. A blade disguised as a joke because if he sounds amused enough maybe nobody notices how badly he’s actually unraveling underneath it.

He finally gets the bourbon open and takes a drink straight from the bottle before leaning back against the counter with a low exhale. The movement pulls the torn fabric of his shirt enough for you to see bruising already forming beneath the blood.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, moving toward him despite yourself. “What happened?”

Rafe’s mouth twitches faintly like he’s debating whether to lie or not. “Somebody said something stupid.”

“That narrows it down absolutely none.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs one shoulder carefully. “Turns out I took it personally.”

You stop in front of him and reach for the front of his shirt before he can sidestep away from being looked after like he usually does. The second your fingers brush the blood-soaked fabric, Rafe goes still for half a heartbeat.

It’s subtle.

Most people wouldn’t notice it.

You do.

That tiny hesitation in his breathing. That brief flicker across his face where all the arrogance drops for just a second and leaves behind something younger. More exhausted. Like part of him still doesn’t understand what to do with gentleness when it’s offered without strings attached.

His eyes stay on your hands while you inspect the damage.

“You know,” he says quietly after a moment, voice rough around the edges now instead of mocking, “you’re the only person who doesn’t immediately start yellin’ at me when I show up like this.”

“That’s because yelling at you doesn’t work.”

“No,” Rafe says, looking at you finally. “Probably because you stopped expecting me to come back clean a long time ago.”