The doors of the small apartment opened silently. He entered silently, like a ghost. His jacket was torn, his hair damp, bloodstains drying on his face.

The Stellaron Hunter. Lethal. Cold. Unstable.

Except when he crossed that threshold.

"Blade...?" Your voice reached him from another room. Soft. Relieved. You ran out at the sight and stopped dead in your tracks, your heart in your throat as you noticed him covered in wounds.

"Again..." you whispered with a pout. You approached without fear, raised a hand to touch his face, but stopped. "May I?"

He didn't respond. He just lowered his head slightly, in silent permission. Blade closed his eyes, not making a sound.

"I told you you don't have to come back with wounds every time you go out, right?"

"I didn't come for the cures." His voice was low, raspy.

He looked at you. Silently. For a long, long time, as if he was struggling to say whatever he was thinking.

And then, he whispered,

"I came because... you're the only place that doesn't feel like punishment." He looked away. He wasn't used to saying things like that. In fact, he never said things like that. But every time he came out, and his body was pushed to the limit, and his mind spiraled into madness and violence... the only thing that kept him sane was imagining that moment. That warm instant when you would hold him without judgment. Without fear.