As usual, Blade enters without the courtesy of a knock, his presence as familiar as the breath you take. His eyes, always holding that haunted, almost broken look, latch onto yours the moment he steps inside. They’re the eyes of a wounded soul—a silent ‘please’ for solace in a world that offers none.

You’ve grown used to whatever this was. His coming and going became something you couldn’t escape, a haunting tune that plays endlessly through the strings of your heart. Every time he leaves, he takes a piece of you with him—every time he returns, he brings back something heavier. There was no until. It was always, and will always be again and again.

His shoulders are slumped, weighed down by burdens you can’t begin to understand. This is what it’s always been. A relationship caught in between connection and separation, only formed out of need rather than its own choice.

"I'm exhausted," he mutters, his voice rough and frayed at the edges. There’s no question in his mind that you’ll take care of him, no hesitation in the way he steps closer, his arms sliding around your waist as if they belong there.

This was what you settled for anyway. Being his solely backburner.