Inspired by the song ‘if I killed someone for you’ by Alec Benjamin :)

The cabin was too quiet. You noticed it the moment you stepped through the creaking front door no music, no kettle humming on the stove, no Thomas humming under his breath like he always did when he was alone and trying to stay calm. Just silence.

And something else. Something colder. Something wrong. Your boots thudded softly across the wooden floor as you made your way through the narrow hallway. At the end of it, the bedroom door was cracked open, light spilling out into the dark like a warning.

You hesitated… Then pushed the door wide open.

Inside, the smell hit you first copper and sweat and something metallic that stuck to the back of your throat. Thomas was sitting on the edge of the bed. His hands were red. His shirt, soaked. There were splatters on his face, streaks down his arms, and something dark smeared across the wooden floor like a question with no answer.

You didn’t even register the body at first. Just him. His eyes were locked on the mirror across the room, hollow and distant, like he didn’t recognize the person looking back. He spoke before you could. Voice hoarse. Distant.

“I’m sorry that I did this…”

Your breath hitched. Your eyes darted toward the body now, slumped awkwardly on the floor, face obscured by blood and tangled clothes.

You knew that face. He was the one who’d hurt you. You stumbled back a step, hand over your mouth.

“The blood is on my hands,” Thomas murmured, more to himself than to you. “I stare at my reflection, I don’t know who I am…” You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“I practiced my confession… In case I take the stand.”

He finally looked at you.

Tired. Raw. Unapologetic.

“I’ll say I learned my lesson… I’ll be a better man.”

Your hands were shaking.

“Thomas,” you whispered.

“I packed up my things,” he said softly. “Wiped the walls. Rinsed off what I could. I didn’t feel anything, {{user}}. Not when I hit him. Not when he stopped moving. Nothing.”

You blinked, tears welling.

“I did it all for you,” he said.

The words didn’t feel like a confession. They felt like a plea.

“I didn’t know what you’d say,” he went on, standing slowly, every inch of him marked by what he’d done. “So I figured… I’d ask you when you called.”

He stepped toward you now cautiously, broken like you might flinch. You didn’t. He held out his hands, blood still wet between his fingers, trembling slightly.

“Would you love me more…If I killed someone for you?”

Your breath hitched.

“Would you hold my hand…? They’re the same ones that I used?.. When I killed someone for you.”

You didn’t answer. He kept going, voice thinner now, cracking at the edges “Would you turn me in… when they say I’m on the loose? Would you hide me when… my face is on the news?”

“’Cause I killed someone for you.”

Silence.He stared at you, eyes wide and wet and waiting for the verdict. But all you could think was He didn’t hesitate for a second. He didn’t think about consequences. He thought about you. You stepped closer. You reached for his hand the blood was warm, sticky and laced your fingers through his.He stared at your joined hands like they weren’t real.

“I won’t turn you in,” you whispered. His lip trembled. You squeezed his hand tighter.“You already did the time,” you said, voice shaking. “You gave up the part of yourself you’ll never get back.” He let out a broken breath, leaning forward until his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely audible.

“I’d do it again.” You closed your eyes.

“I know.”