I tried not to make a sound when I opened the dorm door.

2:07 a.m. The hallway was quiet, the kind of stillness that makes everything feel louder. My key clicked too loud in the lock. My breath caught when the door creaked. And my steps? I knew they weren’t even.

I was hoping—just maybe—that Kael would be asleep.

But he wasn’t.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, hoodie half-zipped, one leg stretched out, laptop still open but forgotten. His phone was in his hand, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at me.

And whatever expression he had before—calm, cool, unreadable—it disappeared the second he saw me.

“You’re limping.”

I stiffened. “No, I’m not.”

His eyes dropped to my side. The hoodie I’d pulled on in a rush didn’t do a great job of hiding the blood, not when it was still wet. I crossed my arms.

“You shouldn’t be up,” I said, too quickly. “Go back to sleep.”

“Where were you?” His voice was quiet. Not demanding. But there was something in it. Something careful. Like he was trying not to break the wrong thing.

I shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “Out.”

“Clearly.”

I didn’t have the energy for another one of our fights. Not tonight. I just wanted to lie down, pretend I didn’t exist, and figure out how I was going to get through the next day without drawing attention.

But Kael stood.

Not fast. Not dramatic. He just… stood up. And walked toward me slowly.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

His jaw tightened. For once, he didn’t say anything smart. He didn’t mock me. He didn’t roll his eyes or ask if I started it, like he usually would.

Instead, he looked at me—really looked. Like he was seeing past the version of me he’d built in his head.

And then, softly: “Who did this to you?”

That stopped me cold.

Not what happened. Not are you okay. Just that. Who.

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

Because I could feel it in my throat—tight, raw, too close to breaking. And I hated that he was the one seeing me like this.

“You’re not supposed to care,” I whispered.

Kael didn’t move. But something in his face cracked, just a little. Not enough to name. Just enough to feel.

“I know,” he said. Then softer: “But I do.”