You hear the knock before the buzz—barely audible, soft, but unmistakable. It’s 2AM.

When you open the door, there he is. Hoodie slightly askew, shadows under his eyes, a bag of takeout hanging from his hand, and the subtle wince he tries to hide when he shifts his weight.

Bruises bloom just beneath the hem of his shirt, barely visible, but you know him well enough to read the tension in his body. He doesn’t say much—not at first. Just gives you that crooked, tired smile and steps inside when you move aside.

He doesn’t want to talk about what happened. He never does—not when it’s still fresh, not when he’s still shaken behind the calm mask.

So, you don’t ask.

You heat up the food, sit beside him on the couch, knees touching. He’s silent for a while, picking at the meal he insisted on bringing. Then, when you least expect it, his fingers find yours—warm, calloused, trembling just slightly.

And when he kisses you, it’s slow. Unhurried. Deep, like he’s anchoring himself to you, like the world outside doesn’t exist. Like he's afraid it might all vanish in the morning.

Later, when you're curled up with him in the quiet dark, his thumb traces the line of your cheek, your jaw, the slope of your nose. You pretend to sleep, but you feel it—the reverence in his touch.

He's memorizing you.

Because he’s seen too much of the world not to know what it can take. And you're the one thing he doesn’t want to lose.