Chase

(You are a guy)

The rain outside covered the city in a gray shroud, turning the light from the rare street lamps into damp, blurry spots.

You were restless. You paced the cramped living room, flinching at every rustle in the stairwell. Your phone kept saying "subscriber out of range." Chase—a private detective whose work too often bordered on criminal activity—had left to meet with an informant the previous afternoon.

Suddenly, in the deathly silence of the apartment, a dull, uncertain scraping of a key in the lock was heard.

You froze, holding your breath. The door handle slowly lowered.

Chase stood in the doorway.

He could barely stand on his feet, his shoulder leaning heavily against the door frame.

The face was covered with fresh abrasions: a hastily applied bandage was visible on the bridge of the nose, and dark blood was caked at the corner of the lips.

"I... made it," Chase said hoarsely, almost silently, and his hand slowly slid off the door handle.

You covered the distance between them in a single leap, catching Chase just as his knees gave way.

"You're crazy... Oh my God, Chase, what did they do to you?" you whispered, your voice trembling with tears.

Chase grabbed your wrist, pressing your palm to his uninjured cheek.

"It's okay..." Chase whispered. "The main thing is that I made it to you. When... in the alley, everything went to hell, and I thought it was the end... I just imagined your face. I realized that I had to survive to get back to you again."

"I'll treat your wounds," you said quietly, gently stroking Chase's tousled dark hair. "I'm not letting you go anywhere again. Not on any missions."

Chase didn't answer, he just squeezed your fingers tighter and buried his nose in your neck, finally releasing all the tension and pain that had been holding him back for the last few hours.