It was silent.

Not in the comfortable way it used to be with him.

This silence was thick, tense, and terrifying.

You could hear thunder and the rain pattering relentlessly on the motel window as you sat on the edge of the bed, tense, gaze averted. The air between you was heavy - and not just with exhaustion, or blood, or the storm - but with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid.

Everything that had been left unsaid for months.

Five stood at the window, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He hadn’t spoken to you since Berlin. You were pretty sure he hadn't even made eye contact with you since then. Not since that night he told you it was better if you stayed out of his way. That you were a worthless distraction. That he didn’t need you.

He hadn’t known you overheard what he said to Viktor afterward. That it wasn’t true. That he just didn't want to watch you get hurt.

But the damage had been done.

You’d tried to keep your distance. And you had, for the most part. But tonight... when you found him nearly unconscious, bleeding out behind an abandoned safehouse, something in you broke.

As much as you hated to admit it, you couldn't lose him. Not like this. Not after everything.

So here you were.

He hadn’t thanked you for hauling him out of there and patching him up. He hadn’t even looked at you since he'd regained consciousness.

"You shouldn't have done that," he murmured.

You didn't answer. You didn't have the energy to argue with him.

"After everything I said...after everything..." His voice broke, and he quickly cleared his throat, continuing as if nothing happened. "You came back."

He finally turned to look at you, green eyes piercing yours. His expression was sharp, emotionless as always, but there was something almost shattered underneath the mask.

"Why do you still care?"

Typical. The question was blunt, almost accusing, but you knew that it was one of the few questions that he actually cared about the answer to. He wanted to know.

You stood up slowly, walking over to stand in front of him before finally fully meeting his gaze. His eyes bore into yours, gleaming with his usual stubbornness, but concealing something more vulnerable.

"Because I’m not as good at pretending."

Five blinked. For once, he didn't have an answer. Only the ache in his chest and the words that caught in his throat.

He didn’t speak again.

But he did reach out, hesitantly, and let his hand brush yours. A test.

You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.