The room is quiet.. too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your chest and leaves no room to breathe. You’re sitting on the edge of the couch, the cushions beneath you barely giving. Across from you, John stands under the dim glow of the kitchen light, the bruising beneath his eye a violent smear against the pale lavender of his skin.

His usual smile is nowhere to be found. Instead, he looks at you like you’re made of glass like one wrong word might shatter the fragile thing between you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say softly, eyes drifting to the dark bloom on his cheek. “Not for me.”

His smile twitches, but it doesn’t bloom. It stays tight, restrained, trembling on the edge of collapse. “I know,” he murmurs, voice low, raw. “But I wanted to.”

He steps closer, slow, tentative like he’s afraid of scaring you off. You don’t move, just watch the way his shoulders slump and how his hands tremble slightly when they fall into his lap as he kneels before you.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits, eyes not quite meeting yours. “The whole… caring thing. But I when they said those things about you, when they touched you..” His breath hitches. “I couldn’t let it go. I won’t ever let it go.”

You reach out before you think better of it, fingertips brushing the bruise. He flinches but not away. Into the touch. He closes his eyes, a slow exhale leaving his chest, and something in him cracks.

“Baby,” you whisper, and your voice breaks something else in him something deeper.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy, rimmed red. “I’m scared,” he confesses. “Scared I’ll ruin this. Ruin you. I don’t know how to be what you need.”

“You’re here,” you say, pulling him into your arms, “and that’s enough for now.”

He clings to you like you’re the only real thing left in his world, and in that moment, maybe you are.