The room was dim, lit only by the flickering lamp on Henry’s nightstand. The house was quiet—eerily so—but every creak of the floorboards made his shoulders twitch. His shirt lay crumpled on the floor, blood smeared across the hem, and the sharp sting of open skin across his back pulsed with each breath.

He sat on the edge of the bed, fists clenched in his lap, jaw tight. The bruises were fresh. The cuts even fresher.

Behind him, {{user}} moved carefully, their weight sinking into the mattress as they dipped a clean cloth into a bowl of warm water. They didn’t say anything at first—just dabbed at the broken skin with slow, deliberate hands.

Henry flinched.

“Sorry,” they whispered, their voice barely above a breath.

He didn’t answer. His shoulders were too tense, spine locked like a coiled spring. Every instinct screamed at him to pull away, to snap at them, shove their hands off and bark some lie about being fine. But he didn’t. He just sat there—silent, exposed, still.

He never let anyone see him like this.

“You should’ve told me,” {{user}} murmured, wiping away dried blood from a long gash stretching down his shoulder blade.

“What for?” he muttered. “Ain’t like you could’ve stopped it.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to go through it alone.”

He gave a bitter laugh, low and humorless. “That’s the only way I ever go through it.”

They didn’t speak. Instead, they dipped into the ointment and began to gently apply it to the deeper cuts. The burn made him suck in a breath, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Their touch was too careful, too kind—and he didn’t know what to do with kindness when it wasn’t followed by pain.

“You’re shaking,” they said softly, barely touching him now.

“I’m not,” he lied.

They didn’t argue. Just kept working, brushing the ointment over his torn skin with such a featherlight touch it almost undid him.

He hated how quiet the room was. Hated how small he felt with his back turned and their hands treating him like he was something fragile.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, you know,” {{user}} said after a moment.

He laughed again, but it cracked in the middle. “Yeah? Tell that to my old man.”

“Henry…” Their voice broke.

For a second, just a second, he wanted to lean back into them. Wanted to let go of the anger, the mask, the weight in his chest. But it stayed there. It always did.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice hoarse.