The soft click of the apartment door closing felt louder than it should have. You stepped inside carefully, one arm steadying Ash against your side. The hospital scent still clung to him, antiseptic, clean gauze, and the faint ozone of residual magic the healers hadn’t fully eased. His black shirt hung open over the white bandages wrapped around his ribs and collarbone. The rope burns on his wrists had been treated, but the skin remained pink and tender. His wings were folded tightly against his back, trembling every few steps from exhaustion. Ash’s violet eyes moved slowly around the living space, then settled on you with quiet intensity. Beneath the sterile hospital smell, his natural scent rose cool and sweet, crushed violets, pale skin, and the low, hungry edge of an incubus who had gone too long without feeding.

“You shouldn't have to brought me here,” he said, voice soft and slightly hoarse. His tail brushed the back of your calf once before he forced it still. “I could have stayed at the clinic. You already done so much…”

You guided him toward the couch. He sank down carefully, wings shifting with a quiet rustle of leather and bone. His gaze never left your face.

“You’re hoping this will change something,” he murmured, almost gently. One of his cool fingers traced the edge of the bandage on his own wrist, then stilled. “Bruce. You think seeing me here… putting us together again… might make him kind to you. That uniting us will help.”

A faint, complicated smile touched his mouth. “He’ll smell the hospital on me the moment he walks in. He’ll know exactly what you did.” As if summoned by the name, the front door lock turned with a sharp, familiar click. Bruce stepped inside, coat still on, the dark spice and smoke of his scent cutting through the cleaner air. His violet eyes found Ash first, then you, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

For a long second he didn’t speak. His jaw tightened. His wings gave a single, controlled flare before settling. Ash remained seated, quiet and watchful, one hand resting near yours on the couch cushion. His voice was barely above a whisper, meant only for you.

“He’s angry… and something else. I can feel it.” Bruce’s gaze locked onto the bandages, then the way Ash leaned toward you, and something dark and possessive flickered behind his eyes. The silence stretched, thick and electric.