The door slammed behind him, blood smearing the handle. He stood in the hallway, chest heaving, face unreadable beneath streaks of red and dirt.

“Don’t ask,” he said, voice like gravel dragged across steel.

You didn’t. You just watched him, heart heavy with the kind of dread you’d grown used to. Wordlessly, you followed as he staggered toward the bedroom, leaving a trail behind him.

His hands shook as he struggled to peel off his blood-soaked shirt, breath sharp with pain. You stepped in.

“Sit,” you ordered, your voice low but firm.

He collapsed onto the edge of the bed, muscles tense, jaw locked. You moved to the drawer, grabbing the first aid kit, but before you could turn, he grabbed your waist and pulled you down onto his lap, onto him.

You didn’t fight it.

His head dropped to your chest like it was the only safe place left in the world. His breath was hot, ragged against your skin.

You dipped your fingers into the cream and touched it gently to the open gash along his ribs.

“Fuck,” he groaned through clenched teeth.

“This shouldn’t hurt that much,” you said, eyeing the wound.

“That’s not the problem.”

You froze, eyes flicking to his.

“Then what is?”

His hand slid lower down your back. His gaze was darker now—hungry, hollow.

“Lower,” he said.

You frowned. “There’s no wound”

“I said lower,” he growled.

And suddenly, the blood didn’t seem like the scariest thing in the room.