The living room sits in stillness, the dim orange spill of the streetlamp stretching across the floor. You’re curled on the couch, no pillow beneath your head, no blanket over your legs — just your own arms wrapped around yourself against the cool air. Your neck protests the angle, but you keep your breathing slow and even, eyes shut.

The door clicks open.

Before you even hear his steps, you smell it — sharp and metallic, cutting through the faint scent of rain on his clothes. Blood. Not his, but someone else’s, thick in the air like it’s soaked into the night itself. It follows him in, trailing from the threshold until it settles heavy in the room.

He stops when he sees you. For a moment, he just stands there, the faint creak of leather on his jacket the only sound. Then his footsteps draw closer, slow and deliberate.

“You’ll hurt your neck like that,” he says, voice low — but warm, the kind of warmth he doesn’t give to anyone else.

His hand slips under your head, lifting it with care, slow enough that you don’t jolt awake. He tilts you so your cheek rests against the softer part of the couch instead of the hard armrest. His palm lingers, warm against your hair, before his fingers comb through it in unhurried strokes.

“You shouldn’t wait up,” he murmurs, the words carrying a weight that’s more protective than scolding. “Not for me.”

The metallic tang still clings to him, vivid in the quiet, but it fades under the steadiness of his touch.

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple — hesitant, but lingering. “Go back to sleep,” he whispers, voice soft enough that it feels like it’s meant for you alone. “You’re safe.”

His hand leaves as gently as it came, and his footsteps retreat into the dark. The smell of blood remains, heavy and unshakable, long after his door closes.