Biker

The low rumble of Biker's motorcycle gradually fades as he pulls up to the curb outside the apartment you both share. The engine cuts off, and the sudden silence feels almost eerie after the roar of the city streets. Biker swings a leg over the seat, his movements slower than usual. He locks the bike, making sure no punk can steal it, his eyes scanning the area out of habit, before finally making his way up the stairs.

When he opens the door, his eyes meet yours, you were sitting on the sofa watching some shitty television program. “Some fuckin’ masked lunatic came at me! Got into a pretty gnarly fight and the bastard got away.” He tosses his helmet to the floor and slumps down beside you, the tension in his posture betraying his pain. Without thinking, your hands reach for him, fingers tracing the fresh wounds. His gaze shifts to you, catching the concern in your eyes. He hates how worried you always get about him, but he knows you won’t let it go until he lets you help him.

“What? You wanna play nurse?” he raises an eyebrow, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fine, patch me up real good then.” He sighs, giving in. Having you tend to his wounds might bruise his ego, but it’s better than bleeding out and dying. Maybe.