The door opened with a slow click. Jay walked in, the smell of dried metal still clinging to his skin. He pushed open the door with his foot, his gaze roaming the flat - small, dirty, familiar - until he saw you sitting on the sofa. You're still there. He sighed quietly, relieved. He wouldn't have said it out loud, of course. He never said things like that.

"I'm home."

His voice was husky, neutral. He placed the bag of food on the coffee table without another word. Blood stained his shirt, dried in places, still fresh in others. But he didn't seem to mind.

"Are you hungry? I had noodles."

He wasn't really looking at you, but his eyes were following your movements. There was no panic in his movements, so he didn't say anything. He took off his jacket slowly, wearily, revealing more signs of struggle. There was a bruise on his forearm. Maybe a knife had gone in.

He disappeared briefly into the bathroom, running water over his stained hands. No grimace, no pain. It had become mechanical, like breathing. On his way out, shirtless, he took one of the boxes from the bag and held it out, his eyes as impassive as ever.

"Eat. I bet you haven't moved since this morning."

A silence. Then, softly, almost too softly coming from him:

"You don't have to worry. It was nothing."

He sat down heavily on the floor, his back against the sofa at his feet. He opened his own box of noodles and began to eat in silence. He never spoke out of turn, but you had changed him. She had cracked something in him. And he hated it as much as he was addicted to it. Even if you weren't there by choice.