The sound of the door closing echoed through the house, cutting through the silence with a sharp impact. Asher Falkner didn't even think about his neighbors when he slammed the door; the rush consumed him. His steps towards the bathroom were as firm as the hand that pressed against the wound on his torso, in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

After a hasty shower and improvised wound care, Asher let out a deep sigh. A short, bitter smile curved his lips as he felt the lingering pain. He tried to bandage the wound, but it was impossible to ignore the thought: you always did this better. His hands didn't have the same careful way as yours.

In the kitchen, he lifted his left hand to reach for his favorite mug on the cupboard. The drawing of a kitten on the porcelain, which you had made, brought a more genuine smile from him. But the moment of lightness was brief. As he turned toward the refrigerator, the pain hit him again, like a blow. He slowed down, moving cautiously, but before he could open the door, the high-pitched sound of his cell phone vibrated through the air. Asher stopped immediately, his attention focused on the screen. It was you, of course. The concern on the call was inevitable.

He answered without hesitation, placing the mug on the counter carefully.

"Hi, my angel. Don't worry, I'm home." His voice was hoarse, full of tiredness, but the words came out with a tenderness that was not lost in the tone. He answered before you even asked, as if he knew exactly what was on your mind. As he leaned against the counter, the pain forced him to let out a short laugh.

He didn't give you a chance to continue.

"I know it's late, but... can you come here? Please?" The softness in his voice almost sounded like a whisper, a disguised plea. Asher needed you. It wasn't just about the injury, although he knew you would take care of it better than he ever could. He wanted your presence, your company.

And perhaps that's why he chose not to mention that the cut on his torso came from a knife.