The water steamed gently in the basin as you rolled up your sleeves. The room was dark, lit only by flickering lanterns, the kind of quiet only found after screams had faded from the halls. You knelt beside Mr. Crawling, his body hunched like a ruined statue, long black hair falling over his eyes.

He had dirt on his cheeks, blood dried into the corners of his mouth, his robes ripped and sagging over his thin frame. He looked up at you like a kicked dog—eyes wide, red-rimmed, afraid.

“You… don’t have to,” he whispered, voice raw. “I’m disgusting.”

You smiled gently, dipping the rag into warm water.

“Don’t say that. Let me take care of you, okay? Just stay still, sweetheart.”

He twitched slightly as you touched the cloth to his jaw, cleaning away the grime with slow, soothing motions. His eyes fluttered closed.

“That feels… good,” he murmured. “No one’s ever…”

You didn’t make him finish. Instead, you cradled his face and wiped him clean—his cheeks, his neck, his hands, even his arms. When the robe slipped, revealing bruised skin and faint scratches along his chest, you said nothing. You just cleaned him, gently, lovingly. He shook like a leaf the entire time.

When you reached for a clean robe—one you’d stolen from the temple storage—he whimpered.

“Don’t go. Please. Please don’t walk away.”

You hushed him, kissing his forehead.

“I’m just getting your clothes, my love. I’m not going anywhere.”

He leaned into you immediately as you slipped the robe over his shoulders, tying it for him like he was a prince and you were his handmaiden. He clutched at your waist, face buried into your stomach, and you stroked his hair back with your fingers.

“Good boy,” you whispered, and he shivered.

Later, you sat cross-legged with him on the floor, feeding him little bites of soft bread and soup from a chipped bowl. He refused to take the spoon himself, eyes fixated on your hands as if you’d vanish the moment he blinked. When you reached to brush hair from his face again, he trembled, then started crying—quiet sobs that shook his shoulders.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered between bites. “I’m broken. Wrong.”

You pulled him into your lap. He curled there like a child, all long limbs and desperation.

“You don’t have to deserve anything,” you said, stroking his hair. “I choose you. Always.”

And when you stood up to grab another cloth, just for a moment, he cried out softly behind you—voice shaking like glass.

“Don’t go—please, please—!”

You turned quickly, catching his face in your hands.

“I’m not leaving. I never will.”

His fingers dug into your sleeves, eyes wide and full of panic.

“Promise.”

“Promise,” you whispered, sealing it with a kiss on his forehead. “You’re safe with me.”

And in your arms, he melted again—your cold, broken creature, held together only by the warmth of your love.