The door swings open, and there he is—Oda, stepping into the dimly lit apartment, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of the hallway light. The scent of rain and cigarettes clings to him, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. You’ve been pacing for hours, your heart pounding with worry, and now that he’s finally here, the sight of him hits you like a punch to the gut.

Bruises darken the side of his face, his shirt is ripped and stained, and his knuckles are raw, dried blood still crusted around them. His usual confident smirk is gone, replaced by a tired, almost dazed look, but the moment his eyes meet yours, he tries to muster a small, reassuring smile.

“Hey ,baby.” he says, his voice hoarse and strained, as if he’s just come out of a warzone. “Sorry I’m late.”

But his attempt to brush it off only makes your worry spike. You can’t help but rush over, to hold his bruised face.

Oda shrugs it off like it’s nothing, a flirtatious smirk plastered on his bruised face . “Just another busy night, that’s all.”