The knock on your door isn’t loud, but it’s frantic — like someone tryin’ not to wake the neighbors while still beggin’ you to answer. When you open it, the hallway’s dim, but you know that silhouette like you know your own breath.

Spot.

He’s slouched, soaked to the bone, blood on his shirt and splattered across his jaw. One eye’s swelling shut, his cap’s gone, and his hands — they’re shaking. You gasp and go to reach for him, but he flinches back hard.

“Don’t,” he snaps, voice low and frayed. “Don’t touch me. Not till I’ve cleaned the blood off. Don’t wanna ruin your pretty clothes…”

His chest rises and falls like he just ran from hell itself. His boots leave muddy prints on the floor and there’s a tear in his sleeve that wasn’t there yesterday.

“Didn’t wanna come here like this,” he mutters, still not meeting your eyes. “Didn’t wanna scare ya. But I didn’t know where else to go.”

There’s pain in the set of his jaw, shame stitched between every word. But underneath it, you hear it — the quiet plea. The fear. The way his hands twitch like they’re beggin’ to be held but don’t think they deserve it.

“I just… needed to see you were still here.”