You’d stopped checking the clock hours ago. The window’s gone dark and you can barely stomach the sinking feeling of dread since Caleb stopped responding to your texts.
You’re still sitting on his couch when you hear the code at the door.
He enters without looking up. The lock resets behind him with a click.
The hallway light catches the edge of him — his collar stained, sleeves wet, something dark crusted up one side of his jacket. He’s stumbling as he slips his shoes off by the door.
There’s blood at his temple. A long slice, half-closed. Dried.
And for a second, the world stutters. He doesn’t move.
His eyes catch on yours like he wasn’t expecting you to be real. Like he’s still back there, wherever there was.
Then, like a switch, his mouth lifts as he struggles to put on a smile. A miserable attempt at masking the exhaustion sunk into his eyes. The crimson staining his sleeves.
“You’re here,” he says softly, almost like it costs him something.
Your legs are already running to cross the room. You’re putting your hands on his face without asking. He leans in, like the contact steadies him.
“No.” He exhales. Then amends, “Not really.”
His hand finds your wrist. “It looks worse than it is. I promise.”
You glance down — his left thigh is soaked through. You don’t know if it’s blood or mud or worse.
“You’re barely standing.”
You press your palm to his cheek. He leans into you again, breath catching, like he’s been holding himself upright for hours longer than he should’ve.
“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” you whisper, tears beginning to blur your vision.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is rough, low. “I wanted to call. I couldn’t—comms were out. And I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“You think I care about that?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You think I wasn’t worried!?”
He exhales — short, defeated. His knees buckle a little under him, and you catch his shoulders.
That’s when he starts to fold.
His body tilts forward, heavy and shaking. You guide him to the couch without thinking. He resists at first, but he’s too far gone to pretend. When he sinks down, it’s like his body forgets how to hold tension.
You kneel in front of him. Start unfastening what’s left of his outer gear. He tries to lift a hand to stop you.
You pull off the gloves. His knuckles are split. One of them is still bleeding. You touch it, and he winces.
You don’t speak for a minute. His eyes are closed. His chest rising slow, shallow.
You take a damp cloth from the kitchen and begin cleaning the blood from his knuckles, his temple. His jaw tenses, then relaxes under your hand.
“You should lie down,” you murmur. “You’re burning up.”
“No,” he says, but the protest barely clears his throat. “I’m fine. Just… need a minute.”
You glance at his thigh again. The fabric is clinging to the wound, soaked through.
“You can’t even sit upright.”
“Still made it home,” he says, looking at you. It’s meant to be teasing, but the edge of it is dull, tired. He’s unraveling.
You slide your hand to the back of his neck, fingertips finding the place where the short hair meets flushed skin.
“Stop pretending already.”
He doesn’t answer. You wait. A long moment passes before he speaks again. “I didn’t want to come back to you like this.”
“What, bloody and half dead?”
“No,” he says. “Looking like I need you.”
The words hang there, raw and small and honest in a way that makes your throat close.
You crouch lower, hands drifting to the buttons of his undershirt. “You do need me.”
He exhales through his nose, shakily. “Yeah,” he says, so quiet it’s almost inaudible. “I do.”
You help him out of the shirt. There are bruises blooming across his ribs. A long, angry gash beneath the clavicle. He doesn’t even flinch when you peel the fabric away, like he’s stopped registering pain.
His eyes never leave your face, looking at you like he’s still waiting to wake up.
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