I don’t even notice I’m bleeding at first.

The adrenaline still hasn’t worn off. My body’s a blur of throbbing heat and numb weight, limbs limp, chest rising and falling too fast.

I’m sprawled on the mattress, half-tangled in damp sheets, and the sharp sting along my inner thigh doesn’t register until I shift slightly and feel something wet cooling against the air.

Then I smell it. Iron. Sharp and familiar.

My stomach sinks.

Akutagawa’s still standing a few feet away, chest bare, shoulders rising in steady, unfazed breaths. He’s already halfway dressed, belt fastened, collar wrinkled. He looks like he always does after: untouched. Empty-eyed. Done with me.

I don’t know what I expect. Maybe I want him to leave. Maybe I’m praying he will.

But instead, he turns toward me, eyes flicking down. His gaze catches on the blood, and something in his jaw tightens.

“Pathetic,” he mutters.

I look away. The corner of my mouth trembles, and I hate it. Hate how quiet I am. Hate how much I wanted him to stay and now can’t stand it when he does.

“You don’t have to—” I manage, voice catching in my throat.

“I know.”

He disappears into the bathroom.

I close my eyes and try to breathe through it. The ache between my legs pulses deeper now that I’m paying attention. There are bruises on my hips, along my arms, some old, some brand new. I tell myself I asked for this. That I wanted it.

I always say yes. Every time.

So why does it hurt like this after?

There’s movement near the edge of the bed. I open my eyes again.

Akutagawa’s back. He kneels beside me with a bowl of water and a damp cloth, face drawn in that same blank, irritated scowl like he’s doing a chore he hates. He dips the cloth, wrings it out roughly, and presses it to my thigh.

I flinch. The pain is sharp, but I don’t make a sound.

He keeps going, methodical, fast, not gentle. But not careless either. His hands know what they’re doing. He presses just hard enough to clean the blood, not enough to reopen the wound.

I swallow. “I said you don’t have to.”

“Then don’t bleed like that,” he snaps without looking at me.

I can’t stop the heat that rises to my face. The words burn.

Still, I watch him. His brows are pinched in the center. His lips are tight. And for all his scorn, his fingers are steady, precise. He doesn’t miss a spot. He cleans me completely.

I want to say thank you, but I can’t. I wouldn’t know if he’d spit it back in my face or worse, ignore it.

So I just lie there, swallowing the ache, watching the man who hurts me care for me like he hates that he’s doing it.

And for some stupid reason…

…I’m grateful he stayed.