You had become, somewhere along the way, his personal nurse. It was routine at first—predictable. He’d leave on a mission, come back battered and silent, and you’d stitch him up without question. A few words at most, and then he was gone again. But then… he started staying. At first, it was small things—excuses that didn’t quite add up. Injuries that didn’t need you, not really. A shallow cut he insisted needed stitches, a bruise he lingered over while you checked it. Then it became something else entirely. He’d show up after a bar fight he could’ve walked away from, sitting there while you worked just so he could talk—or, more often, so you could sit in silence together. He kept coming back… not because he needed treatment, but because, in a way he’d never admit, he needed you. he wanted you.