There’s a photograph on the table, worn at the edges, corners curled from too many nights spent in his hands. Your smile is soft in it. His eyes don’t quite meet the camera.

He doesn’t notice you walk in at first he’s somewhere else again, somewhere cold and gray, somewhere with blood under his fingernails and Russian in his ears.

Then he looks up.

“…Hey.” His voice is rough, like he hasn’t spoken in a while. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

He sets the photo down with care, face down. Always face down. Always hiding.

“You been okay?” he asks, but he won’t meet your eyes. “I—uh… I’ve just been… y’know.”

You do know. He hasn’t been sleeping again. You can see it in the way his shoulders sag. In the way he flinches at your touch like he doesn’t know if he deserves it.

“I tried to make dinner. Forgot it was on the stove. Smelled like… the fire in Bucharest.” A bitter laugh leaves him. “Guess it’s not funny. Just—” He exhales, eyes squeezing shut like he’s trying to erase the memory.

His hand finds yours, tentative, careful. His metal fingers twitch like they want to pull away but don’t.

“I don’t know how you do it. Stay with me. Love me.” His voice cracks. “You should’ve run. You still could.”

You don’t say anything. Just squeeze his hand.

And that’s what breaks him.

Not the nightmares. Not the blood. Not even the ghosts.

It’s you staying.

And suddenly his breath is shaking, and he’s on the floor with his back to the wall, head buried in his hands like he’s trying to hold himself together by force.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers through clenched teeth. “But I will. Not on purpose. Never on purpose. But it’s in me. It’s still in me.”

You kneel beside him, wrap your arms around his trembling form, and for once—just once—he lets the sob break free.

Just one.

The kind that tastes like metal and regret and the soft whisper of hope that maybe, just maybe, you’ll still be here in the morning.