The house is quiet. It always is.

You step into the kitchen, reaching for a glass of water when you hear the front door creak open. It’s past midnight. Reve is late. Again.

He doesn’t notice you at first. His head is down, hood pulled up, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Then he moves into the dim light, and you see it—the bruise darkening his cheekbone, the faint smear of dried blood on his knuckles.

You don’t ask.

Instead, you set the glass of water on the counter and quietly pull the first-aid kit from the cabinet. You place it between you both and step back, waiting.

Reve exhales sharply, something bitter twisting his features. “What, trying to play the concerned parent now?” His voice is low, edged with exhaustion and something you can’t quite name.