The window creaks open like it always does—just enough for him to slip in, all shadows and sharp eyes, damp from the rain, hoodie clinging to him like a second skin.

You’re already sitting up, blanket tangled around your legs, heart thudding like a warning bell. “Patrick,” you breathe, not sure if it’s a greeting or a question.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just steps closer, dripping onto your floor, his jaw set tight like he’s holding back something ugly. His hands are in his pockets—probably to hide the blood. Again.

“You’re not scared of me,” he says. It’s low. Rough. Accusing.

You hesitate. “I should be.”

He looks at you then—really looks. And something in his face cracks, just a little. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice breaks on it, barely a whisper. “You should.”

The silence that follows is heavy. You could kick him out. Tell him this is the last time. But instead you shift over, make room for him to sit at the edge of the bed.

And he does. Like always. Like he never really meant to leave.