You’re sitting on the kitchen counter when I walk in, wearing one of my old t-shirts that hangs off your shoulders like you’re nothing but fragile. Your eyes flick up to me the second the door closes. Wide. Afraid. Relief mixed with terror.

I don’t blame you. I’d be afraid of me too.

The smell of blood hits first, thick and metallic on my skin. I peel off my jacket, fingers stiff from the cold night air and dried gore. You don’t say a word. Just watch me like you’re waiting for me to collapse or explode.

“You shouldn’t be awake,” I mutter, my voice scraping out raw.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper back, clutching your knees to your chest. “I thought… I thought you’d be dead.”

Dead.

You say it like it would’ve broken you. Like it wasn’t deserved.

I swallow hard, unbuttoning my blood-spattered shirt, the crimson streaks smearing across my wrists. I catch my reflection in the microwave door – hair mussed, jaw shadowed with days of stubble, eyes sunken and ringed in grey. I look like a corpse that refused to lie down.

I cross the room and stand between your parted legs, close enough to feel your shaky breaths. Tears are threatening to spill over, blurring those pretty eyes. I lean in until my forehead rests against yours, just needing to feel your warmth for a second.

“I’m too stubborn to die,” I breathe out, trying to keep my voice steady. “Not when I’ve still got you to protect.”

You let out this quiet, broken sob that rips right through my ribs. My hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing over your damp lashes. Fuck. I’m covered in blood, and you’re crying for me.

“Come here,” I whisper, hauling you into my arms. You bury your face in my neck, your tears soaking into my skin like they’re cleansing what I’ve done.

But they’re not. Nothing ever will.

I tighten my grip around your tiny frame, pressing a kiss to your temple, breathing you in like you’re the only thing keeping me human.

Because you are.