He finds you bleeding again.

Not surprising.

You always come back with bruises you don’t explain and injuries stitched together with stubbornness. He doesn’t ask anymore—not really. Just sits you down, grabs the med kit, and mutters, “Hold still.”

You flinch when the alcohol stings. Not from the pain—just from the closeness.

“You don’t have to do this,” you snap.

“You’re hurt.”

“I didn’t ask you to care.”

His hands still. The silence between you stretches like wire.

And that’s when it comes out.

“I am not your kid,” you say, voice sharp. “I have never liked you. I don’t care about you. I won’t wait for you.”

You look him dead in the eye.

“I bite.”

He doesn’t react—not with anger, not even with surprise. Just watches you for a moment like he’s seeing through all of it.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Then bite. But I’m still not leaving.”

You hate how steady he sounds. How unshaken. Like he’s not afraid of the way you’ve built your whole identity out of being unlovable.

You want him to yell. To walk out. To stop trying.

But he doesn’t.

He tapes your ribs in silence, eyes tired but present. You turn your face away so he doesn’t see the way your throat tightens.

You’re not his kid.

But he still shows up like you are.

And that’s the worst part.