I don’t remember walking up the stairs.

Don’t remember unlocking the door to the penthouse.

All I know is my hands are shaking. There’s blood in my mouth. On my shirt. On my hands. It’s not just mine this time. The adrenaline’s wearing off and the pain’s starting to bite — deep, sharp, unrelenting.

I stumble into the kitchen. It’s dark. Quiet. The only light is the city bleeding through the windows, casting everything in a sick red glow.

And then I see you.

You’re standing in the doorway in one of my shirts, eyes wide, frozen like you’ve just seen a ghost.

But I don’t speak.

I can’t.

Because there’s a ringing in my ears that won’t stop, and your face—that face—is the only thing keeping me upright.

I lean on the counter, breathing heavy, dragging my sleeve across my mouth and smearing more blood. My ribs feel shattered. My head’s spinning. My chest is caving in.

You move toward me, slow. Scared, but not of me—for me.

That’s worse.

Because you don’t even flinch when you see the state I’m in. You don’t ask what happened. You don’t scream or cry or freeze up.

You just whisper, “Harry.”

And something inside me snaps.

I punch the wall.

Hard.

My fist splits again, new blood smearing the plaster. You jump but don’t move back—you come closer. You always fucking come closer.

“I told you not to wait up,” I growl, voice hoarse and feral.

But I don’t mean it.

I mean thank you.

I mean please don’t leave.

“I thought you were dead,” you say, and your voice cracks — just once, but it ruins me.

Because in your voice I hear something that sounds a lot like love, even if neither of us believes in it.

And I hate that I’ve made you feel this way. Hate that you care about me enough to cry. Hate that I can’t give you what you need, what you deserve — because all I’ve ever been taught to do is destroy.

“I didn’t think I’d make it back,” I admit, barely above a whisper. “Didn’t know if I wanted to.”

You reach for me.

I let you.

I always let you.

And when your hand touches my face, gentle and trembling, I lean into it like I’ve never leaned into anything in my life.

I close my eyes.

Just for a second.

And I whisper, “If I die in this life, just make sure I die remembering what this felt like.”

Because this moment —you, here, touching me like I’m still human—feels more real than anything else I’ve ever known.

And it terrifies me.