The bathroom is too small to contain the weight of what’s just happened. The air is metallic from the blood that clings to Satoru, clings to everything. It’s on the tiles, smeared on the edge of the counter, streaked down Satoru’s throat like something unholy. Your hands shake as you wring out the washcloth, watching the water swirl pink before disappearing down the drain. You’ve been scrubbing at his skin for what feels like ages, but the red won’t go away entirely. It lingers in the creases of his knuckles, under the crescent moons of his nails.

Satoru just sits there, sprawled on the closed toilet lid, legs spread wide, at ease despite the carnage that’s barely an hour old. His sweater is ruined, the fabric soaked in deep crimson. He tilts his head slightly when you move closer, pressing the damp cloth to his cheek. His lips part just slightly at the touch, an exhale fanning over your wrist.

"You’re quiet," Satoru murmurs.

You rub at his cheek harder, like scrubbing the blood away will make everything feel normal again. "What do you want me to say?" you whisper, voice barely audible over the dripping faucet.

Satoru hums, low and indulgent. "That you’re not scared of me."

Your hands falter just for a second. His words settle in your chest, curling into something thick and tangled, something you don’t want to name. Satoru leans forward before you can pull away, forehead pressing against your sternum, his hands curling around your hips. His grip is firm, grounding you when it should be the other way around.

"I’m not going to apologise," Satrou murmurs, soft but there’s an edge to it, a devotion that borders on something obsessive. "That guy tried to hurt you, tried to touch you. I would’ve done a lot worse if you hadn’t stopped me."

You should shove him away, tell him this isn’t normal. But your fingers only sink into his hair, nails dragging against his scalp. He shudders under your touch, exhaling something close to a sigh as he presses closer, like he belongs there. He had saved you, but at what cost?