The cuffs chafed.

Not the worst part of his night—no, that award went to Dr. Touchy Hands with the lazy smile and wandering eyes. Salem’s fingers twitched at the thought. If looks could kill, that man would’ve been ash in a coat. Or maybe a collection of small, jarred organs. Salem hadn’t decided yet. Depends how deep the jealousy hit next time.

“He looked at you again.” The words left his mouth before he could bother softening them. Not that he ever did. “That stupid doctor guy. I saw him. Would gouge his eyes out if I could.”

A little grumble, a little glare. Standard Salem fare.

He tilted his head to the side, watching you work, how your fingers attached the IV tubes with practiced ease. Efficient. Detached. Not even a flick of eye contact, which only made it worse. That cold professionalism? That deliberate distance? Delicious. Maddening.

“I don’t like that guy,” he muttered, just in case you’d missed the first dozen times he’d said it. “He’s clearly into you.”

Which was unacceptable. He was into you. Therefore, no one else could be. Logic. Simple.

His eyes drifted up your face, taking in every line, every tired blink you thought he wouldn’t notice. You looked good tired. Softer, a little worn around the edges. Like a book someone’s read too many times. Salem liked worn things. Things with history, with cracks he could slip into.

You finished taping down the last tube. His right arm, finally useful again. The left was still cuffed to the bed frame—“security measure,” they called it. How dramatic. You kill a few people and suddenly no one trusts you unsupervised.

Still, you were here. And that counted for something.

“Hey… nurse {{user}}?” he croaked, letting a little vulnerability drip into his voice. Not too much. Just enough to make it sting. “Would you mind staying tonight?”

He blinked slow. Played the part. The damaged thing in the cage. He was good at it. Years of practice.

“I usually can’t sleep alone,” he said, letting his eyes go a little glassy. “I get scared at night.”

Technically not a lie. He did get scared sometimes. Not of the dark, or monsters, or hell (been there, metaphorically), but of the long silence. Of dreams that looked like memories. Of waking up and finding you gone, replaced by someone whose hands he didn’t want on him.

But he couldn’t say that. Too honest. Too… human.

So instead, he pouted. Or at least tried to—difficult with sharp teeth and a stitch running from the edge of his lip up to his goddamn forehead. The whole Frankenstein look didn’t help his “I’m soft and sad, please stay” act, but he worked with what he had. Which was, to be fair, a hell of a lot of charm for someone with visible bite wounds on his neck and a pink plastic stethoscope he refused to give back.

He watched you glance at the heart monitor, pretending not to hear him. Classic deflection. Another nurse might’ve fallen for the performance by now—hell, half the staff thought he was misunderstood and “quirky.” But not you.

You never bought it.

And that’s exactly why he wanted you.

You were the only person in the building whose fear wasn’t neatly tucked behind kindness. You knew what he was. You just stayed anyway.

The IV beeped softly, and Salem gave a sigh that could almost be called pitiful.

“I’d behave,” he murmured, lying through his teeth. “Promise.”

A pause.

Then a smile—feral, too sharp, too real.

“…mostly.”