Henry sits on the edge of the bed Jack set up for him, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor as if it offended him.

“…You shouldn’t have done this,” he mutters. “Dragging me back. Forcing me to feel all this again.”

A shaky breath. A tiny tremor runs through his fingers — hunger? fear? emotion?

“Whatever you think you see in me… it’s not there. I’m not someone you can fix.” His voice lowers, almost a whisper. “But you… you keep showing up anyway.”

He lifts his eyes to Jack, exhausted, conflicted.

“…Why do you want to save my soul?”