Wrench sat at the edge of the bed, mask clutched in his hands, shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold himself smaller. He kept his back to you, like hiding his face would undo what happened. Like pretending you didn’t see him like that, unguarded, would make it easier to leave without a word.

You sat up quietly, the sheet slipping down your chest as you shifted closer. The bed creaked just enough to make him flinch, but he didn’t move away.

Not yet.

Gently, you touched his arm.

He stiffened.

“…Don’t,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. Rough. Uneven. “You don’t have to say anything. Just- just forget it happened. We were drunk. I shouldn’t have taken off the mask.”