Imagine: When Follo returned from the mission, you did not hear his footsteps right away. First, you heard someone quietly curse behind the door, and then came a dull thud, as if a shoulder had accidentally hit the doorframe.
“Everything’s fine, really. I can do it myself.”
And without a doubt, it was him.
You set your cup down on the table and rose just as Follo stepped inside. He was still wearing his work clothes, covered in dust. His cap sat crookedly, the goggles on it pushed off to one side, and a thin scratch ran across his cheek, marked by a dried streak of blood. His right hand, however, he kept hidden behind his back.
“Don’t even start,” you said.
Follo froze in the doorway.
“I just came in.”
“You’ve got ‘I’m fine’ written all over your face.”
He blinked, then tried to smile.
“But I really…”
“Follo.”
The smile immediately turned guilty. He lowered his gaze.
“Alright. Maybe not completely.”
You silently pointed to the chair. He looked at it as if you had suggested not that he sit down, but that he confess to some terrible crime.
“I need to take the report first…” he mumbled.
“The report can wait.”
“And check the equipment…”
“The equipment too.”
“And I think Tomme’s fastener jammed again on…”
“Follo.”
He let out a noisy breath.
“You’re especially strict today.”
“Sit.”
Follo sat down, but not right away. First, it was as if he mentally ran through the list of everyone else’s problems once more, all the things he considered more important than his own hand. But then he finally sat, carefully resting his elbow on the table.
You went to the shelf, took out the first-aid kit, and placed it beside him.
“Show me.”
He hesitated.
“It’s nothing serious.”
“I didn’t ask for commentary. I asked you to show me your hand.”
Follo looked up at you from under his brows.
“Are you always this bossy with injured people?”
“Only with the ones who try to run away from treatment.”
He gave a quiet huff of amusement, but still held out his hand. And immediately, you no longer felt like joking: his knuckles were split, a long mark stretched across his palm as if his skin had been dragged over rough metal or stone, and his fingers trembled slightly from overstrain, though Follo was trying with all his might to keep them steady.
You frowned.
“And this is what you call ‘nothing serious’?”
“It could be worse.”
“I don’t like answers like that.”
He turned his gaze toward the window. Beyond the glass, evening was slowly settling in. Dust hung in the air like a murky golden haze, and the usual sharp noise of headquarters now sounded muted. As if the whole world had stepped back for a while, leaving only the two of you in a small room that smelled of antiseptic, old wood, and exhaustion.
You dampened the bandage and carefully touched his palm. Follo flinched.
“Does it hurt?” you asked.
“No,” he answered.
You lifted your eyes. He immediately corrected himself.
“A little.”
“That sounds more like the truth.”
Follo fell silent. You began to clean the wound. Slowly, trying not to press harder than necessary. He sat motionless, only occasionally clenching his teeth when the cloth brushed against a particularly sensitive spot.
“What happened?” you asked.
“A collapse.”
“On the mission?”
He nodded.
“One of the passages started coming down. We were almost out, but a guy from the technical team was still there. His leg got trapped under a beam. I thought I could make it in time.”
You gripped the bandage tighter between your fingers.
“And did you?”
Follo gave a quiet chuckle.
“I did.”
“And your hand?”
“My hand helped a lot with that.”
You looked at him. He tried to smile, but this time the smile came out completely crooked.
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Of course. Your hand decided all on its own to go under the rubble.”
“I tried to stop it, honestly.”
You wanted to scold him. To tell him that he was reckless, that he did not have to rush forward every time as if his own pain meant nothing. That his body was not a tool he could use to pay for every saved second.
But Follo looked so tired that the words got stuck somewhere in your throat. He was not acting heroic for praise, and he was not showing off. He was not trying to prove to you how strong he was. He had simply done what he always did: seen someone who needed help and been unable to walk past. And that was exactly why you wanted, all at once, to smack his shoulder and pull him close.
“Are you angry?” he asked quietly.
You blinked. Follo was watching you carefully, almost guiltily. There was no defensiveness in his voice. Only a cautious, aching expectation, as if he had already prepared himself to hear that he had ruined everything.
“Yes,” you answered honestly.
His face twitched slightly.
“I see.”
“Not because you helped.”
He went still. You returned to bandaging his hand so you would not have to look him directly in the eye. Speaking was easier that way.
“I’m angry because every time, you forget that you can be lost too.”
Follo did not answer. The room became very quiet. Somewhere far away, a door slammed, and in the hallway, someone gave a short, tired laugh. And still, the young man remained silent.
You had almost finished wrapping his hand when Follo suddenly said,
“I don’t forget.”
You raised your gaze. He was looking at his bandaged palm.
“It’s just that sometimes it feels like, if I have to choose between myself and someone else… it’s more right to choose someone else.”
Your fingers froze on the knot of the bandage. Follo had said it with terrifying calm. As if it were not just a bad thought, but a fact long since accepted. Something simple and obvious, like a duty schedule or a list of equipment before going out.
You slowly let go of the bandage.
“Look at me.”
He did not obey right away. First, he inhaled, as if he were about to joke again. Then, apparently realizing it would not work, he finally raised his eyes. There was so much exhaustion in them that your heart clenched.
“Don’t say that,” you said.
“I wasn’t…”
“Don’t say that. Ever.”
Follo looked at you in confusion.
“But I really think that.”
“Then think differently.”
He smiled weakly.
“Sounds simple.”
“No one said it would be simple.”
You walked around the table and stepped closer. Follo lifted his head, following you with his eyes, but he did not pull away, even when you carefully touched your fingers to his cheek beside the scratch, careful not to brush against it. His breathing faltered.
“You are not a backup option,” you said softly. “Not temporary help. And not someone who can be placed between danger and everyone else because ‘that’s more right.’”
Follo swallowed.
“You don’t have to…”
“I know.”
You ran your thumb over the clean patch of his cheek. He closed his eyes. For some reason, that gesture turned out to be stronger than any words. Follo, who endured pain, noise, the weight of other people’s requests, exhaustion after missions, and his own sense of inadequacy, suddenly could not withstand one simple touch. His shoulders dropped. The tension he had held for so long that it seemed part of his skeleton finally began to loosen.
“I was scared,” you admitted.
He opened his eyes.
“Because of me?”
“Yes, you idiot. Because of you.”
This time, he did not laugh. He only looked at you intently.
“I thought,” Follo said quietly, “that you were just… kind to everyone.”
“I really am just kind to everyone.”
“Oh.”
He tried to nod, but it came out unconvincing. Something painful flickered across his face so quickly that someone else might not have noticed. But you already knew Follo too well, and you saw the way he knew how to hide himself behind other people’s conclusions.
You sighed.
“But I don’t worry about anyone else as much as I worry about you.”
Follo went completely still. Even the fingers on his bandaged hand stopped trembling.
“What?”
You felt a little embarrassed. Not because of the words you had said, but because of how strongly they sounded in the silence. As if you had opened a door to a place where everything had been piling up for a long time, and now it was impossible to pretend nothing had happened. But you did not want to retreat. Not now.
“I said that you matter to me,” you said more slowly. “A lot.”
Follo looked at you as though you had struck him with something far stronger than a hammer. Only without pain. Or maybe, on the contrary, with the kind of pain that appears when a person is suddenly given something they denied themselves for a long time.
“To you?” he asked, barely audibly.
You frowned.
“To who else?”
“No, I understand. It’s just…”
He ran his good hand through his hair in confusion, knocking his cap even more crooked.
“It’s just strange.”
“What is?”
“That someone could… worry about me like that.”
You silently looked at him. Follo smiled nervously.
“I think I ruined the moment?”
“A little.”
“Sorry.”
“Follo.”
“Don’t apologize?”
“Exactly.”
He shut his mouth. You could not help it and laughed. At first uncertainly, then a little softer, more freely. And Follo, it seemed, realized himself how it looked: him sitting in front of you covered in dust, with a bandaged hand, a crooked cap, and eyes wide with astonishment because he had just been told something very important, and still, his first instinct had been to apologize.
His lips twitched.
“I really am trying.”
“I can see that.”
“And I’m doing badly.”
“It’s alright. I’ll remind you.”
“Strictly?”
“Very strictly.”
He smiled. And this time, there was something shy but happy in his smile. Follo carefully raised his bandaged hand, but immediately winced. So instead, he held out his other hand and touched your fingers. He did not take them right away. It was as if he were asking permission first.
But you intertwined your fingers with his yourself. He looked down at the touch, then raised his eyes to you.
“After the mission,” he said quietly, “I wanted to go to the medics first.”
“Very sensible.”
“Then I thought they already had enough people without me.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Follo.”
“But then… I thought about you.”
You fell silent. He squeezed your hand a little tighter.
“About how you would tell me to sit down again. How you would grumble. How you would call me an idiot if you found out I’d tried to bandage this myself.”
“I would have.”
“I know.”
Follo lowered his gaze, smiling very faintly.
“And for some reason, I wanted to come here instead.”
Your heart gave a painful little tremble. You stepped closer. He lifted his head. There was almost no distance left between you now. Follo sat while you stood in front of him, and because of that, he looked up at you without the usual urge to retreat, without a hurried smile, without trying to pretend nothing was happening. Right now, for you, there was no one else in the world except this tired, kind, awkward young man.
“Then come,” you said. “I’ll always wait for you.”
Follo breathed in quietly.
“Even if I say again that everything’s fine?”
“Especially then.”
“Even if I’m in the way?”
“You’re not in the way.”
“Even if…”
“Follo. Please.”
He fell silent. You leaned down and gently kissed him on the cheek beside the scratch, where his skin was warm and smelled of dust, soap, and something entirely his.
Follo stopped breathing. Only for a couple of seconds. Then he exhaled so quietly, as if he were afraid to scare the moment away.
You did not pull back right away. And when you finally straightened, you saw that he was looking at you completely stunned. His ears had turned noticeably red.
“You…” he began, then immediately faltered.
“Yes?..”
“You just…”
“Kissed you.”
“Yes.”
“Does that need explaining too?”
Follo slowly shook his head. Then suddenly, he smiled, covering his face with his good hand.
“No. It doesn’t.”
You felt yourself smiling too.
“Good.”
“Just give me a second.”
“What for?”
“I’m trying not to look stupid.”
“It’s alright,” you waved it off. “I know you’re shy.”
He let out a quiet laugh from behind his hand.
“As always, you prefer honesty.”
“Definitely.”
He lowered his hand from his face. This time, Follo reached for you himself. Slowly, carefully, every movement still requiring courage from him. His fingers settled on the edge of your sleeve, then a little higher, on your wrist.
“Can I… too?”
You did not answer with words. You simply leaned closer. Follo kissed you on the cheek just as carefully as you had kissed him before, almost weightlessly. But there was so much tenderness in that brief touch that your eyes treacherously began to sting.
He pulled away first. Embarrassed, but no longer so frightened.
“I’ll probably still sometimes think I don’t deserve this,” he admitted.
You stroked his palm with your thumb, trying not to touch the bandage.
“Then I’ll remind you.”
“With all due strictness?”
“Don’t doubt it.”
Follo smiled. Behind the door, someone called his name again. He rolled his eyes with such quiet, almost domestic despair that you nearly laughed.
“I really do have to go,” he said. “Otherwise they won’t manage without me.”
“First, go to the infirmary.”
“But you already…”
“No.”
He raised both hands in surrender.
“That’s it. I understand. To the medics.”
You took a clean cloth from the shelf and handed it to him.
“And everything else after.”
“Yes.”
“And if your hand starts hurting more, you’ll say so.”
He thought about it for one second. You narrowed your eyes.
“I’ll say so,” Follo quickly added. “Honestly.”
“Good.”
He stood up, but before leaving, he paused and turned back. In the hallway behind him, voices were already rising again, boxes rattling, someone calling, someone hurrying, someone demanding help. An ordinary, familiar, hectic evening for the Cleaners.
But Follo was not looking there. He was looking at you.
“I’ll come back,” he said.
It was not a desire to report in, but a careful, almost new admission for him: now he truly had somewhere to return to.
You smiled.
“I know.”
Follo nodded and left. And you remained standing in the middle of the room, holding the open first-aid kit in your hands, and for the first time that evening, you felt the anxiety in your chest retreat into the background.