Vander’s head throbbed, the dull ache of an old injury flaring with each heartbeat. He’d managed to keep most of the fight contained to a few bruises and scrapes, but the pain still gnawed at him. It was never the physical wounds that bothered him so much—it was the reminder of what he used to be, what he had once been willing to do. He had hoped to avoid this kind of confrontation, but some things in the Lanes never changed. They would always test him, always push him to act.

Now, as he sat in the quiet of his room, the soft hum of the city outside only accentuating the stillness within, he let himself exhale. The blood from a split lip had dried, but it was the deep fatigue in his bones that made him feel older than his years. He couldn’t fight like he used to. Not anymore.

The door creaked open, and his gaze met yours. He knew what was coming—the gentle care, the soft touch. He didn’t deserve it, not after everything, but he couldn’t deny the warmth he felt when you approached him. He winced slightly as you reached for the cloth, but the way your fingers worked with such tenderness to clean him, to ease the strain of his body… it was the only comfort he had left in a world that had taken so much from him.

Vander’s grey eyes softened as you worked, his rough hand coming up to rest on your arm, a silent plea for reassurance.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he murmured, his voice rough but filled with an unspoken gratitude. Yet, he found no strength to pull away. Instead, he let himself lean into your care. After all, in moments like these, when peace felt so fleeting, it was the small acts of love that anchored him.