𔓘

and soldier boy stays. that is the part nobody says. not because it’s surprising anymore. because saying it would make it into something. he stays through the waiting, through butcher’s ugly little calculations, through frenchie muttering about vapor systems and reinforced restraint anchors, through every mention of a chamber that could hold two supes at once. he doesn’t soften around it. he doesn’t talk about it. sometimes he leaves the room when the conversation turns too clinical, jaw tight, shoulders locked, and nobody follows.

you don’t either. not because you don’t notice. you notice everything now. you notice the way his hand curls around a beer bottle when frenchie says temperature regulation. the way his eyes stop blinking when mm reads restraint failure analysis aloud. the way his chest stays dark, no glow, no heat, but his breathing changes just slightly, enough for you to hear it if you’re close.

and you are close. more often than either of you admits. not in front of everyone, not openly, not in a way butcher can weaponize with that awful little smile of his. but at night, when the safehouse thins out and the old war movies start lying on the tv again, you end up beside him on the couch. not always leaning into him. sometimes just close enough that your knee touches his thigh under a blanket he definitely does not put over you. some nights, you fall asleep there for an hour with his arm heavy behind you, not wrapped—not quite—but near enough that if your body tips, it has somewhere to land.

other nights, you make it to your room and wake before sunrise with him still half-sitting against the headboard, neck stiff, expression murderous, acting like spending another night there was some tactical decision instead of whatever it actually is.

you don’t ask.

he doesn’t explain.

training resumes without ceremony. no please, no challenge, no big dramatic conversation in the gym. you just show up one afternoon, wraps in hand, and he is already there, rolling his shoulders, looking at the patched wall. he glances at you once, eyes dropping to your hands, then nods toward the mat.

that is all.

the routine comes back, but it doesn’t come back the same.

before, training was a fight dressed up as instruction. now, it’s something stranger. sharper. too familiar in places that make your skin remember things you have no business remembering while learning how to block a hook. soldier boy still pushes you hard. harder, sometimes, because you are no longer recovering and he no longer has that excuse to keep his hands careful. he knocks you down. you get up. he traps your wrist. you twist free. he drives you toward the wall mat. you plant your foot before your back hits.

you are getting good. not good in the way he’s good. that would be ridiculous. he’s still a supe, still unfairly strong, still built like vought and america had a fistfight over propaganda and somehow produced shoulders. you cannot hurt him. not really. your best punch barely turns his head if he doesn’t let it. when your knee catches the inside of his thigh, he shifts because he chooses to account for the move, not because you can actually drop him.

but now he has to account for it. that matters. you learn his weight. his timing. the little shift in his left shoulder before he reaches. the way his right foot plants before he decides to crowd you. you learn the difference between a real grab and a trap he wants you to think is real. you stop flinching when his hand comes near your throat in a controlled hold, stop freezing when his arm locks across your chest, stop wasting energy fighting the strongest part of him when his elbow, his wrist, his balance gives you something easier.

“again,” he says, because he always does.

you go again.

his hand catches your forearm; you turn under it before he can lock your shoulder. he steps in; you slide back half an inch instead of giving him your whole body. he reaches for your waist; you knock his hand aside and drive your palm toward his chest, not hard enough to move him much, but clean enough to make him look down at where you landed.

“again,” he says, but he’s breathing harder now. not exhausted—never that—but harder.

you smile before you can stop it. “you okay?”

his eyes lift. “don’t get cocky.”

“i’m concerned.”

“you’re annoying.”

“that too.”

he moves before you finish, but you see it coming. that is the beautiful part. you see it. his hand aims for your wrist, fast and brutal, and you let him take it for half a second before you drop your weight, twist, and slip free so quickly that his fingers close around empty air.

soldier boy pauses. just one beat. barely anything.

you catch it anyway. “getting slow?”

“getting lucky?”

his mouth twitches, but instead of answering, he steps in behind you, one arm cutting across your path. you expect the hold. you expect the pressure at your hip, the hard correction, the usual rough shove into position. what you get is his hand flat against your stomach.

your breath stalls while his palm spreads there, warm through your shirt, pulling you back against him just enough to correct your center. not your hip. not your wrist. your stomach. the touch is not practical in the clean way it used to be. it’s still useful, sure. he can pretend that if he wants. 

but his fingers press once, almost playful, and his chin dips near your shoulder, close enough that his next words brush the side of your neck, “brace.”

you stare at the punching bag in front of you. “i am.”

his hand squeezes once, not hard. “you’re not.”

“are you training me or feeling me up?”

“multitasking.”

you should shove him off. instead, you turn sharply under his arm, catch the wrist at your stomach, and use the angle to pull yourself free before he can lock you back. your elbow drives toward his ribs, stopping short because his ribs are unfairly useless as a target, but the move is clean.

he looks at you.

you lift both brows. “multitasking.”

his grin flickers and dies before it gets comfortable. “cheap.”

“effective.”

“again.”

some days, his chin rests on your shoulder for half a second too long when he corrects the angle of your guard. some days, he squeezes your side just to make you hiss and call him an asshole. some days, his hand trails across your stomach as he steps away, and you use the distraction to sweep low, catch his ankle, and make him shift his balance enough that he curses under his breath.

those are your favorites.

you break the almosts before they can become something too soft. when his mouth gets too close, you duck under his arm. when his eyes drop to yours too long, you hit. when his hand stays at your waist, you twist it into a lock and shove him back with your shoulder. not because you don’t want it. that would be simpler. because wanting it is starting to feel too much like giving someone a loaded gun and trusting them not to aim.

he knows what you’re doing. of course he does.

one late afternoon, after a week of waiting and training and sleeping too close without naming it, you catch him properly.

it happens fast. he drives you back toward the mat wall, not hard, just enough pressure to make you choose. you let him think you’re giving ground. then you pivot inside his reach, shoulder under his arm, hand catching the back of his shirt, your knee driving toward the inside of his thigh as your free hand comes up toward his face. he expects hesitation. you know because he leaves the smallest opening. maybe to test you. maybe because he thinks you’ll stop again.

you don’t.

your fist cuts clean toward his jaw and stops less than an inch from his mouth—not because you freeze—because you choose it.

his eyes drop to your knuckles. then to your face. your breathing is high, but steady. “dead.”

the word lands between you.

slowly, soldier boy smiles. it’s not soft. not sweet. it’s worse. proud and hungry and irritated all at once, like he hates that you got there and hates more that he wanted you to. “took you long enough.”

“you were wide open.”

“i let you think that.”

“sure.” you pull your fist back. “whatever helps.”

his hand catches yours before you can drop it. not to block. not to correct. he just holds your wrapped knuckles for a second, thumb pressing over the line of fabric. his other hand comes to your stomach again, steadying you though you don’t need steadying.

the room gets very small. you look at his mouth. his hand tightens once at your stomach.

then you hook your foot behind his ankle and shove.

he doesn’t fall. obviously. but he has to step back—actually step back. his hand leaves you, his shoulder shifting, his mouth parting around a sharp breath that might have become something else if you had let the almost live another second.

instead, you grin. “still standing.”

he stares at you. “you’re getting real full of yourself.”

“earned it.”

“maybe.”

that maybe follows you all the way to the end of training.

by the time the sun drops low enough to turn the gym gold at the edges, your shirt is damp, your arms are heavy, and soldier boy is breathing through his nose with that particular kind of annoyance that means you made him work. he doesn’t say it. he doesn’t need to. you see it in the way he flexes his fingers after you break a hold. in the way he watches you reset without correcting your feet. in the way he stops calling your form shit unless it actually is.

you sit on the bench to unwrap your hands. the old patch on the wall catches the late light. it’s still a slightly different shade from everything around it, even after mm painted it. better than before, but definitely not invisible.

nothing really is.

soldier boy leans against the wall opposite you, arms crossed, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. “tomorrow,” he says, “i want the knife.”

you keep unwrapping. “what knife?”

his face gives you nothing. “the one sitting by the sink.”

the air changes. but it’s subtle—no shift anyone outside your body would notice. but your stomach tightens, and your fingers pull at the wrap too quickly, tangling the fabric around your wrist. “it’s fine where it is.”

“no, it isn’t.”

“did mm complain?”

“this isn’t about mm.”

“then it’s not your problem.”

“it is if you walk into another room without it.”

your eyes lift to his. “i’ve been training without it all week.”

“and tomorrow you train with it.”

“no.”

he pushes off the wall. slow. not angry yet, but getting there. “not asking.”

you laugh once, short and ugly. “you really have to stop mistaking your voice for the law.”

“you freeze every time you look at it.”

your jaw tightens. “don’t tell me what i do.”

“i watch you in the kitchen every night. you stand there for a full minute staring at it like it’s gonna bite.”

“maybe i don’t feel like touching it.”

“yeah. got that.”

you stand before you think better of it, wraps hanging loose from one hand. “what do you want from me? pick it up, strap it on, pretend everything’s fine?”

“i want you to stop leaving yourself open because you’re scared of a piece of steel.”

“i killed someone with it.”

“you saved hughie with it.”

“i know that!” your voice snaps off the walls, sharper than you intend. “i know. everyone keeps finding different ways to say it, like if you phrase it correctly, i’ll suddenly feel clean about it.”

soldier boy’s expression hardens. “clean’s got nothing to do with alive.”

“that is such a you thing to say.”

“because it’s true.”

“because it’s easy for you.”

his eyes go cold. “watch it.”

you should. you know you should. but something in you is already too raw, too cornered by the knife on the counter, by the fact that he’s right and wrong at the same time, by the ugly knowledge that the new placement at your hip saved hughie and broke something in you.

so you step closer. “i’m not gonna become a killing machine just because you found something fragile to work on.”

that lands. you know it lands because his face empties first.

then his jaw flexes. “you think that’s what i’m doing?”

“isn’t it?”

“if i wanted a killing machine, i wouldn’t waste my time teaching you how to stay alive.”

your mouth opens, then closes. it cuts straight through the anger, which only makes you angrier because you are not ready to soften. not with the knife still waiting in the kitchen. not with your hands finally clean and still not feeling clean enough.

“i’m not your concern,” you say.

he looks at you like you slapped him. “bullshit.”

“i mean it.”

“no, you don’t.”

“you don’t get to decide that.”

“i’m the one who had to watch you sit in a van with blood on your pants looking like someone scooped your insides out,” he snaps, voice rough now. “i’m the one who knows exactly where your knife should sit because the wrong inch gets somebody killed. so don’t stand there and tell me you’re not my concern when you keep making yourself my concern.”

silence. your chest rises once. too quick. his does too. 

for a second, the fight hangs there with nowhere to go. too ugly to be nothing. too honest to survive.

then soldier boy ruins it—his eyes drag over your sweaty shirt, your damp hair, the wraps loose in your hand. “and you need a shower.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“you heard me.”

“we’re in the middle of a fight.”

“yeah, and you smell like one.” his mouth curls, crude and familiar enough that your anger stumbles over it. “no way i’m spending the night in your bed if you keep the attitude and smell like a locker room.”

you stare at him.

he stares back like he has said something entirely reasonable.

“you are unbelievable.”

“been told.”

“you think you’re coming to my room tonight?”

“yeah.”

“after this?”

“especially after this.”

your laugh comes out disbelieving and a little too close to something else. “i’ll lock the door.”

“i’ll punch it open.”

“mm will kill you.”

“he can try.”

“i’ll let him.”

“no, you won’t.”

you hate that he sounds so certain. hate more that he might be right. “fuck off.”

“shower first.”

“fuck off twice.”

his mouth twitches. not a smile. close enough to be dangerous. “there she is.”

you turn away before he can see what your face does, gathering your towel with more violence than the fabric deserves. “i’m not touching the knife tomorrow.”

“yes, you are.”

“no, i’m not.”

“we’ll see.”

you stop at the doorway, looking back despite yourself. he’s still standing near the bench, arms crossed again, expression carved back into something stubborn and almost calm. but his eyes are on you.

“you’re not fixing me,” you say, quieter now.

his face changes by almost nothing. “never said you were broken.”

you leave before the room can ask anything else of you.

the hallway is dimmer than the gym, cooler against your skin. you walk toward the bathroom first, then stop halfway when the kitchen comes into view. the knife is still by the sink, clean and dry on its folded cloth. frenchie put it there carefully, blade turned away from the edge, handle facing outward. easy to pick up. 

you stand in the doorway and look at it. your hand does not reach. not really. your fingers flex once at your side, then curl into your palm. not yet.

you go shower.

later, with your hair damp and your body sore in the dull, satisfying way training leaves behind, you pass the kitchen again. the knife is still there. the safehouse hums around it. mm and frenchie are murmuring over notes in the back room. annie is asleep or pretending to be. hughie has left a mug in the sink. butcher is gone somewhere with a cigarette and a bad idea.

you look at the knife. then you look away.

when you reach your room, you pause with your hand on the doorknob. for one stubborn second, you consider locking it. you even turn the small metal button halfway. then stop.

the fight is still in your chest. so is his voice. i want you alive. you let the lock turn back.

the knife stays by the sink.

your door stays unlocked.

for tonight, that is as brave as you get.

and soldier boy stays. that is the part nobody says. not because it’s surprising anymore. because saying it would make it into something. he stays through the waiting, through butcher’s ugly little calculations, through frenchie muttering about vapor systems and reinforced restraint anchors, through every mention of a chamber that could hold two supes at once. he doesn’t soften around it. he doesn’t talk about it. sometimes he leaves the room when the conversation turns too clinical, jaw tight, shoulders locked, and nobody follows.

you don’t either. not because you don’t notice. you notice everything now. you notice the way his hand curls around a beer bottle when frenchie says temperature regulation. the way his eyes stop blinking when mm reads restraint failure analysis aloud. the way his chest stays dark, no glow, no heat, but his breathing changes just slightly, enough for you to hear it if you’re close.

and you are close. more often than either of you admits. not in front of everyone, not openly, not in a way butcher can weaponize with that awful little smile of his. but at night, when the safehouse thins out and the old war movies start lying on the tv again, you end up beside him on the couch. not always leaning into him. sometimes just close enough that your knee touches his thigh under a blanket he definitely does not put over you. some nights, you fall asleep there for an hour with his arm heavy behind you, not wrapped—not quite—but near enough that if your body tips, it has somewhere to land.

other nights, you make it to your room and wake before sunrise with him still half-sitting against the headboard, neck stiff, expression murderous, acting like spending another night there was some tactical decision instead of whatever it actually is.

you don’t ask.

he doesn’t explain.

training resumes without ceremony. no please, no challenge, no big dramatic conversation in the gym. you just show up one afternoon, wraps in hand, and he is already there, rolling his shoulders, looking at the patched wall. he glances at you once, eyes dropping to your hands, then nods toward the mat.

that is all.

the routine comes back, but it doesn’t come back the same.

before, training was a fight dressed up as instruction. now, it’s something stranger. sharper. too familiar in places that make your skin remember things you have no business remembering while learning how to block a hook. soldier boy still pushes you hard. harder, sometimes, because you are no longer recovering and he no longer has that excuse to keep his hands careful. he knocks you down. you get up. he traps your wrist. you twist free. he drives you toward the wall mat. you plant your foot before your back hits.

you are getting good. not good in the way he’s good. that would be ridiculous. he’s still a supe, still unfairly strong, still built like vought and america had a fistfight over propaganda and somehow produced shoulders. you cannot hurt him. not really. your best punch barely turns his head if he doesn’t let it. when your knee catches the inside of his thigh, he shifts because he chooses to account for the move, not because you can actually drop him.

but now he has to account for it. that matters. you learn his weight. his timing. the little shift in his left shoulder before he reaches. the way his right foot plants before he decides to crowd you. you learn the difference between a real grab and a trap he wants you to think is real. you stop flinching when his hand comes near your throat in a controlled hold, stop freezing when his arm locks across your chest, stop wasting energy fighting the strongest part of him when his elbow, his wrist, his balance gives you something easier.

“again,” he says, because he always does.

you go again.

his hand catches your forearm; you turn under it before he can lock your shoulder. he steps in; you slide back half an inch instead of giving him your whole body. he reaches for your waist; you knock his hand aside and drive your palm toward his chest, not hard enough to move him much, but clean enough to make him look down at where you landed.

“again,” he says, but he’s breathing harder now. not exhausted—never that—but harder.

you smile before you can stop it. “you okay?”

his eyes lift. “don’t get cocky.”

“i’m concerned.”

“you’re annoying.”

“that too.”

he moves before you finish, but you see it coming. that is the beautiful part. you see it. his hand aims for your wrist, fast and brutal, and you let him take it for half a second before you drop your weight, twist, and slip free so quickly that his fingers close around empty air.

soldier boy pauses. just one beat. barely anything.

you catch it anyway. “getting slow?”

“getting lucky?”

his mouth twitches, but instead of answering, he steps in behind you, one arm cutting across your path. you expect the hold. you expect the pressure at your hip, the hard correction, the usual rough shove into position. what you get is his hand flat against your stomach.

your breath stalls while his palm spreads there, warm through your shirt, pulling you back against him just enough to correct your center. not your hip. not your wrist. your stomach. the touch is not practical in the clean way it used to be. it’s still useful, sure. he can pretend that if he wants. 

but his fingers press once, almost playful, and his chin dips near your shoulder, close enough that his next words brush the side of your neck, “brace.”

you stare at the punching bag in front of you. “i am.”

his hand squeezes once, not hard. “you’re not.”

“are you training me or feeling me up?”

“multitasking.”

you should shove him off. instead, you turn sharply under his arm, catch the wrist at your stomach, and use the angle to pull yourself free before he can lock you back. your elbow drives toward his ribs, stopping short because his ribs are unfairly useless as a target, but the move is clean.

he looks at you.

you lift both brows. “multitasking.”

his grin flickers and dies before it gets comfortable. “cheap.”

“effective.”

“again.”

some days, his chin rests on your shoulder for half a second too long when he corrects the angle of your guard. some days, he squeezes your side just to make you hiss and call him an asshole. some days, his hand trails across your stomach as he steps away, and you use the distraction to sweep low, catch his ankle, and make him shift his balance enough that he curses under his breath.

those are your favorites.

you break the almosts before they can become something too soft. when his mouth gets too close, you duck under his arm. when his eyes drop to yours too long, you hit. when his hand stays at your waist, you twist it into a lock and shove him back with your shoulder. not because you don’t want it. that would be simpler. because wanting it is starting to feel too much like giving someone a loaded gun and trusting them not to aim.

he knows what you’re doing. of course he does.

one late afternoon, after a week of waiting and training and sleeping too close without naming it, you catch him properly.

it happens fast. he drives you back toward the mat wall, not hard, just enough pressure to make you choose. you let him think you’re giving ground. then you pivot inside his reach, shoulder under his arm, hand catching the back of his shirt, your knee driving toward the inside of his thigh as your free hand comes up toward his face. he expects hesitation. you know because he leaves the smallest opening. maybe to test you. maybe because he thinks you’ll stop again.

you don’t.

your fist cuts clean toward his jaw and stops less than an inch from his mouth—not because you freeze—because you choose it.

his eyes drop to your knuckles. then to your face. your breathing is high, but steady. “dead.”

the word lands between you.

slowly, soldier boy smiles. it’s not soft. not sweet. it’s worse. proud and hungry and irritated all at once, like he hates that you got there and hates more that he wanted you to. “took you long enough.”

“you were wide open.”

“i let you think that.”

“sure.” you pull your fist back. “whatever helps.”

his hand catches yours before you can drop it. not to block. not to correct. he just holds your wrapped knuckles for a second, thumb pressing over the line of fabric. his other hand comes to your stomach again, steadying you though you don’t need steadying.

the room gets very small. you look at his mouth. his hand tightens once at your stomach.

then you hook your foot behind his ankle and shove.

he doesn’t fall. obviously. but he has to step back—actually step back. his hand leaves you, his shoulder shifting, his mouth parting around a sharp breath that might have become something else if you had let the almost live another second.

instead, you grin. “still standing.”

he stares at you. “you’re getting real full of yourself.”

“earned it.”

“maybe.”

that maybe follows you all the way to the end of training.

by the time the sun drops low enough to turn the gym gold at the edges, your shirt is damp, your arms are heavy, and soldier boy is breathing through his nose with that particular kind of annoyance that means you made him work. he doesn’t say it. he doesn’t need to. you see it in the way he flexes his fingers after you break a hold. in the way he watches you reset without correcting your feet. in the way he stops calling your form shit unless it actually is.

you sit on the bench to unwrap your hands. the old patch on the wall catches the late light. it’s still a slightly different shade from everything around it, even after mm painted it. better than before, but definitely not invisible.

nothing really is.

soldier boy leans against the wall opposite you, arms crossed, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. “tomorrow,” he says, “i want the knife.”

you keep unwrapping. “what knife?”

his face gives you nothing. “the one sitting by the sink.”

the air changes. but it’s subtle—no shift anyone outside your body would notice. but your stomach tightens, and your fingers pull at the wrap too quickly, tangling the fabric around your wrist. “it’s fine where it is.”

“no, it isn’t.”

“did mm complain?”

“this isn’t about mm.”

“then it’s not your problem.”

“it is if you walk into another room without it.”

your eyes lift to his. “i’ve been training without it all week.”

“and tomorrow you train with it.”

“no.”

he pushes off the wall. slow. not angry yet, but getting there. “not asking.”

you laugh once, short and ugly. “you really have to stop mistaking your voice for the law.”

“you freeze every time you look at it.”

your jaw tightens. “don’t tell me what i do.”

“i watch you in the kitchen every night. you stand there for a full minute staring at it like it’s gonna bite.”

“maybe i don’t feel like touching it.”

“yeah. got that.”

you stand before you think better of it, wraps hanging loose from one hand. “what do you want from me? pick it up, strap it on, pretend everything’s fine?”

“i want you to stop leaving yourself open because you’re scared of a piece of steel.”

“i killed someone with it.”

“you saved hughie with it.”

“i know that!” your voice snaps off the walls, sharper than you intend. “i know. everyone keeps finding different ways to say it, like if you phrase it correctly, i’ll suddenly feel clean about it.”

soldier boy’s expression hardens. “clean’s got nothing to do with alive.”

“that is such a you thing to say.”

“because it’s true.”

“because it’s easy for you.”

his eyes go cold. “watch it.”

you should. you know you should. but something in you is already too raw, too cornered by the knife on the counter, by the fact that he’s right and wrong at the same time, by the ugly knowledge that the new placement at your hip saved hughie and broke something in you.

so you step closer. “i’m not gonna become a killing machine just because you found something fragile to work on.”

that lands. you know it lands because his face empties first.

then his jaw flexes. “you think that’s what i’m doing?”

“isn’t it?”

“if i wanted a killing machine, i wouldn’t waste my time teaching you how to stay alive.”

your mouth opens, then closes. it cuts straight through the anger, which only makes you angrier because you are not ready to soften. not with the knife still waiting in the kitchen. not with your hands finally clean and still not feeling clean enough.

“i’m not your concern,” you say.

he looks at you like you slapped him. “bullshit.”

“i mean it.”

“no, you don’t.”

“you don’t get to decide that.”

“i’m the one who had to watch you sit in a van with blood on your pants looking like someone scooped your insides out,” he snaps, voice rough now. “i’m the one who knows exactly where your knife should sit because the wrong inch gets somebody killed. so don’t stand there and tell me you’re not my concern when you keep making yourself my concern.”

silence. your chest rises once. too quick. his does too. 

for a second, the fight hangs there with nowhere to go. too ugly to be nothing. too honest to survive.

then soldier boy ruins it—his eyes drag over your sweaty shirt, your damp hair, the wraps loose in your hand. “and you need a shower.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“you heard me.”

“we’re in the middle of a fight.”

“yeah, and you smell like one.” his mouth curls, crude and familiar enough that your anger stumbles over it. “no way i’m spending the night in your bed if you keep the attitude and smell like a locker room.”

you stare at him.

he stares back like he has said something entirely reasonable.

“you are unbelievable.”

“been told.”

“you think you’re coming to my room tonight?”

“yeah.”

“after this?”

“especially after this.”

your laugh comes out disbelieving and a little too close to something else. “i’ll lock the door.”

“i’ll punch it open.”

“mm will kill you.”

“he can try.”

“i’ll let him.”

“no, you won’t.”

you hate that he sounds so certain. hate more that he might be right. “fuck off.”

“shower first.”

“fuck off twice.”

his mouth twitches. not a smile. close enough to be dangerous. “there she is.”

you turn away before he can see what your face does, gathering your towel with more violence than the fabric deserves. “i’m not touching the knife tomorrow.”

“yes, you are.”

“no, i’m not.”

“we’ll see.”

you stop at the doorway, looking back despite yourself. he’s still standing near the bench, arms crossed again, expression carved back into something stubborn and almost calm. but his eyes are on you.

“you’re not fixing me,” you say, quieter now.

his face changes by almost nothing. “never said you were broken.”

you leave before the room can ask anything else of you.

the hallway is dimmer than the gym, cooler against your skin. you walk toward the bathroom first, then stop halfway when the kitchen comes into view. the knife is still by the sink, clean and dry on its folded cloth. frenchie put it there carefully, blade turned away from the edge, handle facing outward. easy to pick up. 

you stand in the doorway and look at it. your hand does not reach. not really. your fingers flex once at your side, then curl into your palm. not yet.

you go shower.

later, with your hair damp and your body sore in the dull, satisfying way training leaves behind, you pass the kitchen again. the knife is still there. the safehouse hums around it. mm and frenchie are murmuring over notes in the back room. annie is asleep or pretending to be. hughie has left a mug in the sink. butcher is gone somewhere with a cigarette and a bad idea.

you look at the knife. then you look away.

when you reach your room, you pause with your hand on the doorknob. for one stubborn second, you consider locking it. you even turn the small metal button halfway. then stop.

the fight is still in your chest. so is his voice. i want you alive. you let the lock turn back.

the knife stays by the sink.

your door stays unlocked.

for tonight, that is as brave as you get.

your eyes open.

soldier boy is still there. for a second, that confuses you more than anything else. he is propped against the headboard, exactly where he was when you finally stopped shaking sometime before sunrise, except somehow more uncomfortable now. his head rests back against the wall, jaw shadowed, hair messy, one arm still around you with a kind of heavy, unconscious discipline, like even his exhaustion has orders to follow. except he is not asleep. his eyes are open, fixed on the far wall with the blank patience of a man who has been awake for too long and refuses to admit his neck is probably screaming.

you stay very still. not because you’re embarrassed. embarrassed is too simple for waking up with your face on soldier boy’s chest after crying into his shirt for half the night. there are several other feelings in the room and none of them have washed their hands.

his chest rises beneath your cheek. “you awake?” he asks, voice rough. low. sleep-damaged, even though he clearly has not slept enough for that to be fair.

you blink slowly. “unfortunately.”

“thought so.”

“what time is it?”

he looks toward the small clock on your dresser. “noon.”

you lift your head too fast and immediately regret it when your skull gives a faint, offended throb. “noon?”

“yeah.” his eyes slide down to you. “you drooled on my shirt around eight, if you want the full report.”

you stare at him.

he looks back without a single trace of mercy.

“i did not.”

“sure.”

“i don’t drool.”

“shirt says different.”

your gaze drops before you can stop it. there is, horrifically, a darker patch of fabric near the center of his chest. not large. not damning. but clearly there. “that could be anything,” you say.

“yeah. maybe i got shot in the tit and didn’t notice.”

a laugh catches in your throat before you can prepare for it. it comes out small, scraped, not fully alive yet, but there. it surprises you enough that your face shifts and almost breaks again.

soldier boy sees that too. his expression tightens for half a second, like the laugh is worse than tears because he doesn’t know what the hell to do with either. then he looks away first, jaw working.

you sit up slowly. his arm falls from your back. not like he’s pulling away because someone might see. just ending the thing because you moved and he lets you. the room feels colder without it. your hair is dry now, messy around your face. your eyes burn in that raw way they do after a night of not-quite-sleep and too much crying. your hands are still tender from scrubbing. when you flex them, the skin pulls tight across your knuckles.

soldier boy shifts his shoulder once. something in his neck cracks.

you look at him. “your back must hurt.”

“i’ve had worse.”

silence settles between you. not heavy in the same way as last night. not easy either. you look at the blanket bunched near his thigh, then at the wrinkled shirt you cried into, then at his hand resting on the bed between you like it has no idea what to do now that it is no longer holding you together.

“thank you,” you say.

his eyes cut to yours. you expect him to make a joke. to ruin it on purpose. to say something about you being a mess, or drooling, or owing him a shirt. and maybe he almost does. you see it flicker across his face, the reflexive reach for something crude enough to kick the sincerity out of the room. instead, he looks away. “don’t make it weird.”

you huff. “you spent the night in my bed.”

“yeah, and you snore like an engine, so nobody won.”

“i do not snore.”

“sure.”

“you’re lying.”

“i’m a national hero. wouldn’t dare.”

you give him a flat look. “you are physically incapable of saying that convincingly.”

his mouth twitches. barely. then the room quiets again.

you look down at your hands. “i mean it.”

his face changes by almost nothing. “i know.”

that’s all. somehow, it is enough.

you climb out of bed first. he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t ask where you’re going. doesn’t tell you to eat or shower again or go back to sleep. he just watches you stand, watches you steady yourself against the edge of the mattress for a second too long, and says nothing when you pretend you didn’t need to.

by the time you reach the door, his voice follows you. “eat something.”

you turn back. “look at you, being all caring.”

“that was me not wanting to hear annie bitch when you pass out.”

“sweet.”

“practical.”

“same thing with you, apparently.”

you leave before he can answer, but you hear the low sound he makes under his breath. not a laugh. close enough to haunt you.

the safehouse is quieter than it should be at noon. it has that after-a-bad-night feeling, the one where everyone moves gently around the evidence. 

the manuals from the warehouse are stacked on the kitchen table. frenchie has three open notebooks beside them, handwriting messy and tight. mm is by the sink, coffee in hand, reading a page with a frown that has probably caused permanent damage to his face. butcher is nowhere in sight, which means he is either sleeping, plotting, or doing both with a cigarette in his mouth.

annie looks up when you enter. her eyes move over you once. quick. careful. not invasive. “hey,” she says.

“hey.”

“you hungry?”

no are you okay. no how are you feeling. no soft, dreadful question you would have to lie your way around. you could kiss her for that if you weren’t already busy having several problems. “maybe,” you say.

“toast?”

“please.”

she turns to make it like this is normal. like you coming into the kitchen at noon with swollen eyes and soldier boy’s shirt wrinkles still imprinted somewhere on your cheek is just another tuesday. kimiko sits at the counter and gives you a small, warm look. you manage one back.

then you see hughie. he is standing near the living room entrance, half-hidden by the doorframe like he has been trying to decide whether entering the kitchen would make things better or worse. his hair is messy. his sweater sleeves are pulled over his hands. there are shadows beneath his eyes, and when he sees you looking, his whole face tightens with guilt. 

your stomach drops. not because you’re angry—you’re not. that is harder.

“hey,” he says.

your mouth goes dry. “hey.”

annie stills near the toaster. mm looks up from his papers. kimiko’s gaze moves between you and hughie.

hughie steps in properly. slow, like you might bolt if he moves too quickly. “can we—uh. can we talk?”

you nod before you feel ready. “yeah.”

the hallway outside the kitchen is narrow. the wallpaper peels near the baseboards. someone has left a box of ammunition beside a laundry basket, because everyone in this house has the potential to be studied by professionals. you stop near the end, where the wall turns toward the bedrooms, and hughie stops across from you with his hands clasped too tightly together. for a second, neither of you says anything.

he swallows. “i keep wanting to say sorry.”

you respond too quickly. “don’t.”

“i know.” he nods too fast. “i know. i know you said not to. and annie said not to. and mm gave me a look that kind of felt like a warning. so i’m trying not to.”

despite everything, your mouth almost moves. hughie sees it and lets out a shaky breath that is almost relief. 

then his face crumples a little at the edges. not crying. trying not to. “i froze,” he says.

you shake your head. “hughie—”

“no, i did. and maybe that’s not useful to say, but i did. i had his wrist, and i could feel the knife, and i just…” his voice thins. “i couldn’t move it. i couldn’t make my hands do what they were supposed to do.”

you remember his hands on the guard’s wrist. white-knuckled. slipping. “you were trying.” 

“yeah.” his laugh breaks in the middle. “trying is a really fun word when someone else has to fix it.”

“don’t do that.”

“i’m not trying to make you comfort me.” he looks at you then. “i promise. i just need you to know i know what happened. i know what you did. i know it wasn’t nothing.”

your throat tightens.

hughie breathes in slowly, like he rehearsed this and still might lose it halfway through. “i’m alive because of you.”

your eyes burn immediately. “hughie.”

“no, please. just—let me say it right once.” his voice shakes. “i’m alive because of you. i’m sorry it cost you that, but i’m not sorry you saved me.”

the words hit somewhere deep and awful. not like butcher’s did. butcher anchored you to the outcome: alive, alive, alive. hughie anchors you to himself. to the fact that he is standing here in front of you, breathing, guilty, grateful, alive in a sweater with too-long sleeves and eyes that refuse to let you turn him into a clean excuse.

you look at him, and for the first time since the warehouse, you can hold the whole thing for more than a second. the guard is dead. hughie is alive. your hands did both. a sound leaves you, small and cracked. 

hughie’s face folds with panic. “no, no, i’m sorry—”

“stop apologizing,” you say, and then you step forward and hug him.

he freezes for half a second, startled. then his arms come around you so tightly you almost lose breath. not enough to hurt. enough to prove he is there. solid. alive. you grip the back of his sweater and close your eyes. alive.

“i’m glad you’re okay,” you whisper.

his breath stutters near your shoulder. “i’m glad you’re okay too.”

you let out a wet little laugh. “debatable.”

“fair.”

you stay there for another few seconds. maybe too long. maybe not enough. when you pull back, his eyes are red, and yours probably are too.

“are we okay?” he asks.

you think about it. then nod. “we’re okay.”

his shoulders drop like the words have taken weight off his bones.

“but if you apologize again,” you add, “i’ll make annie give you the disappointed face.”

hughie winces. “that’s cruel.”

the almost-joke helps. not because anything is fixed, but because the room inside your chest has air in it again. when you both return to the kitchen, annie does not ask. she just puts toast in front of you. mm gives hughie one look, then you, then nods like something has been settled enough for now. kimiko reaches across the counter and squeezes your wrist once, over the raw skin. gentle. brief. you eat half the toast.

the day moves around you in quiet labor. frenchie and mm work through the manuals, finding enough awful details to make the freezer feel less theoretical and more real with every passing hour. butcher reappears around two, accepts that you are upright with one glance, and does not mention last night. that might be his version of mercy. 

soldier boy comes out later, fully dressed now, hair still damp from a shower, expression back to its usual carved annoyance. he sees you at the table. you see him seeing you. nothing happens.

he sits on the couch and complains about the movie selection within five minutes. normal. aggressively normal. you answer him once from the kitchen without thinking, something about his taste being older than color television, and his eyes flick toward you with something that is almost relief before he buries it under a scoff.

the day does not become easy. but it is survivable. night comes slowly. no mission. no training. no urgent move on vought’s shipment yet, because mm and frenchie need time with the manuals and butcher needs time to pretend he is not impatient enough to chew through drywall. the safehouse settles into scattered corners. annie and hughie disappear to the back room with mugs of tea. frenchie falls asleep over a notebook until kimiko makes him get up. mm stays at the table way until dark. butcher goes out to make a call.

you help clean the kitchen because your hands need something simple to do. plates. mugs. crumbs. wipe the counter. fold a towel. put it down. pick it up again. 

then you see the knife. it is on the far side of the counter, beside the sink, cleaned and dry on a folded cloth. frenchie must have left it there after scrubbing the blood from the handle. the blade catches the low kitchen light in one narrow line. ordinary now. almost innocent.

your body stops before your mind does. the safehouse noise thins as you stare at it. you know you should put it away. it is yours. your gear. your responsibility. you will need it again, probably sooner than anyone should. the sheath is empty, and that emptiness has been there all day. 

you reach for it, but your fingers stop inches away.

the handle is clean. you can see that. no blood in the grooves. no red under the edge. no proof except the proof in you. your hand curls back. not yet.

you breathe in once. too shallow. then again. still not enough.

from the living room, the tv crackles with old gunfire. black-and-white shouting. dramatic music under an explosion that sounds too clean. soldier boy is on the couch, one arm over the back, beer on the table in front of him. war movie. of course. the universe has very little imagination.

you leave the knife where it is. you’re not brave enough to touch it tonight.

the couch dips when you sit down on the opposite end from him. soldier boy’s eyes move to you. then past you, toward the kitchen. toward the counter. he knows. maybe he saw the whole thing in the dark reflection of the tv. maybe he guessed from the way your breathing changed. maybe he just knows too much now, and that is becoming a problem.

he doesn’t say anything.

you pull your knees up, tucking your feet beneath you. not close to him—not far enough either. the couch has become its own kind of negotiation.

on screen, soldiers run across fake smoke and painted rubble. after a minute, soldier boy says, “this one’s bullshit.”

you look at the tv. “why do you even watch these?”

that gets him to look at you. his face gives nothing away.  the movie keeps lying to both of you. you watch it anyway.

for a while, neither of you moves closer. his arm stays on his side of the couch. your feet stay tucked beneath you. there is space between your bodies, and in that space sits the knife on the counter, the guard on the floor, hughie’s hug, butcher’s rough voice telling you alive, alive, alive.

then the room gets colder. or maybe you do. you shift once, pulling your sleeves over your hands. soldier boy notices. you know he notices because his eyes move, not to your face, but to the way your shoulders tuck in. 

“window’s open,” he says eventually.

“then close it.”

“you’re closer.”

“you have longer legs.”

“and?”

you stare at the tv. “and i’m emotionally recovering from murder. be useful.” that should be too dark to work. maybe it is. the words leave your mouth and sit there, ugly and honest enough to make you feel exposed.

soldier boy is quiet for a second. then he gets up with a grumble and shuts the window.

you watch him do it without turning your head fully. broad back. loose shirt. bare forearms. the casual irritation in the line of his shoulders, like basic decency is an errand someone keeps making him run.

he returns to the couch and this time, he sits closer. not next to you. not openly. but closer by enough that the cushion dips differently and the warmth of him reaches the edge of your space.

you look at the tv very hard.

he drinks his beer.

the movie continues being terrible.

a few minutes pass.

you don’t decide to move closer so much as stop deciding not to. your body is tired. your head is loud. the knife is still in the kitchen, and the war movie is lying, and soldier boy is warm beside you in a way that does not ask questions.

you shift across the cushion and settle against his side carefully at first, like the wrong movement might ruin the whole thing. your shoulder touches his ribs. then your cheek finds the side of his chest, not exactly the same place as last night, but close enough that your body remembers the shape of resting there. your knees stay tucked beneath you. your hands stay gathered near your stomach, not reaching for him, not yet. just there.

soldier boy goes still. completely still. for a second, you think he might say something awful. or worse, something gentle. his chest lifts under your cheek. “you—”

“don’t make it weird,” you say.

his mouth shuts. the silence that follows is so sharp and immediate that if you had any strength left, you might laugh. instead, you close your eyes.

his arm shifts. not tender in the way people write songs about. it just moves from the backrest and settles behind you, heavy across the couch, his forearm not quite wrapped around you but close enough that if you leaned back, it would hold.

he mutters, “brat.”

you breathe out, almost a laugh. “unstable.”

“snorer.”

“liar.”

his hand comes to rest near your shoulder. not moving. not stroking. just there.

you let yourself sink another inch closer. this time, he doesn’t make a joke. the movie keeps playing. someone on screen gives a speech about sacrifice that neither of you believes. down the hall, the pipes knock inside the wall. the safehouse lives around you in small, stubborn sounds.

you don’t touch the knife. you don’t sleep. but your breathing evens out against soldier boy’s side, and he stays exactly where he is, warm and solid and silent beside you, letting the strange little shape of this exist without naming it.

your eyes open.

soldier boy is still there. for a second, that confuses you more than anything else. he is propped against the headboard, exactly where he was when you finally stopped shaking sometime before sunrise, except somehow more uncomfortable now. his head rests back against the wall, jaw shadowed, hair messy, one arm still around you with a kind of heavy, unconscious discipline, like even his exhaustion has orders to follow. except he is not asleep. his eyes are open, fixed on the far wall with the blank patience of a man who has been awake for too long and refuses to admit his neck is probably screaming.

you stay very still. not because you’re embarrassed. embarrassed is too simple for waking up with your face on soldier boy’s chest after crying into his shirt for half the night. there are several other feelings in the room and none of them have washed their hands.

his chest rises beneath your cheek. “you awake?” he asks, voice rough. low. sleep-damaged, even though he clearly has not slept enough for that to be fair.

you blink slowly. “unfortunately.”

“thought so.”

“what time is it?”

he looks toward the small clock on your dresser. “noon.”

you lift your head too fast and immediately regret it when your skull gives a faint, offended throb. “noon?”

“yeah.” his eyes slide down to you. “you drooled on my shirt around eight, if you want the full report.”

you stare at him.

he looks back without a single trace of mercy.

“i did not.”

“sure.”

“i don’t drool.”

“shirt says different.”

your gaze drops before you can stop it. there is, horrifically, a darker patch of fabric near the center of his chest. not large. not damning. but clearly there. “that could be anything,” you say.

“yeah. maybe i got shot in the tit and didn’t notice.”

a laugh catches in your throat before you can prepare for it. it comes out small, scraped, not fully alive yet, but there. it surprises you enough that your face shifts and almost breaks again.

soldier boy sees that too. his expression tightens for half a second, like the laugh is worse than tears because he doesn’t know what the hell to do with either. then he looks away first, jaw working.

you sit up slowly. his arm falls from your back. not like he’s pulling away because someone might see. just ending the thing because you moved and he lets you. the room feels colder without it. your hair is dry now, messy around your face. your eyes burn in that raw way they do after a night of not-quite-sleep and too much crying. your hands are still tender from scrubbing. when you flex them, the skin pulls tight across your knuckles.

soldier boy shifts his shoulder once. something in his neck cracks.

you look at him. “your back must hurt.”

“i’ve had worse.”

silence settles between you. not heavy in the same way as last night. not easy either. you look at the blanket bunched near his thigh, then at the wrinkled shirt you cried into, then at his hand resting on the bed between you like it has no idea what to do now that it is no longer holding you together.

“thank you,” you say.

his eyes cut to yours. you expect him to make a joke. to ruin it on purpose. to say something about you being a mess, or drooling, or owing him a shirt. and maybe he almost does. you see it flicker across his face, the reflexive reach for something crude enough to kick the sincerity out of the room. instead, he looks away. “don’t make it weird.”

you huff. “you spent the night in my bed.”

“yeah, and you snore like an engine, so nobody won.”

“i do not snore.”

“sure.”

“you’re lying.”

“i’m a national hero. wouldn’t dare.”

you give him a flat look. “you are physically incapable of saying that convincingly.”

his mouth twitches. barely. then the room quiets again.

you look down at your hands. “i mean it.”

his face changes by almost nothing. “i know.”

that’s all. somehow, it is enough.

you climb out of bed first. he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t ask where you’re going. doesn’t tell you to eat or shower again or go back to sleep. he just watches you stand, watches you steady yourself against the edge of the mattress for a second too long, and says nothing when you pretend you didn’t need to.

by the time you reach the door, his voice follows you. “eat something.”

you turn back. “look at you, being all caring.”

“that was me not wanting to hear annie bitch when you pass out.”

“sweet.”

“practical.”

“same thing with you, apparently.”

you leave before he can answer, but you hear the low sound he makes under his breath. not a laugh. close enough to haunt you.

the safehouse is quieter than it should be at noon. it has that after-a-bad-night feeling, the one where everyone moves gently around the evidence. 

the manuals from the warehouse are stacked on the kitchen table. frenchie has three open notebooks beside them, handwriting messy and tight. mm is by the sink, coffee in hand, reading a page with a frown that has probably caused permanent damage to his face. butcher is nowhere in sight, which means he is either sleeping, plotting, or doing both with a cigarette in his mouth.

annie looks up when you enter. her eyes move over you once. quick. careful. not invasive. “hey,” she says.

“hey.”

“you hungry?”

no are you okay. no how are you feeling. no soft, dreadful question you would have to lie your way around. you could kiss her for that if you weren’t already busy having several problems. “maybe,” you say.

“toast?”

“please.”

she turns to make it like this is normal. like you coming into the kitchen at noon with swollen eyes and soldier boy’s shirt wrinkles still imprinted somewhere on your cheek is just another tuesday. kimiko sits at the counter and gives you a small, warm look. you manage one back.

then you see hughie. he is standing near the living room entrance, half-hidden by the doorframe like he has been trying to decide whether entering the kitchen would make things better or worse. his hair is messy. his sweater sleeves are pulled over his hands. there are shadows beneath his eyes, and when he sees you looking, his whole face tightens with guilt. 

your stomach drops. not because you’re angry—you’re not. that is harder.

“hey,” he says.

your mouth goes dry. “hey.”

annie stills near the toaster. mm looks up from his papers. kimiko’s gaze moves between you and hughie.

hughie steps in properly. slow, like you might bolt if he moves too quickly. “can we—uh. can we talk?”

you nod before you feel ready. “yeah.”

the hallway outside the kitchen is narrow. the wallpaper peels near the baseboards. someone has left a box of ammunition beside a laundry basket, because everyone in this house has the potential to be studied by professionals. you stop near the end, where the wall turns toward the bedrooms, and hughie stops across from you with his hands clasped too tightly together. for a second, neither of you says anything.

he swallows. “i keep wanting to say sorry.”

you respond too quickly. “don’t.”

“i know.” he nods too fast. “i know. i know you said not to. and annie said not to. and mm gave me a look that kind of felt like a warning. so i’m trying not to.”

despite everything, your mouth almost moves. hughie sees it and lets out a shaky breath that is almost relief. 

then his face crumples a little at the edges. not crying. trying not to. “i froze,” he says.

you shake your head. “hughie—”

“no, i did. and maybe that’s not useful to say, but i did. i had his wrist, and i could feel the knife, and i just…” his voice thins. “i couldn’t move it. i couldn’t make my hands do what they were supposed to do.”

you remember his hands on the guard’s wrist. white-knuckled. slipping. “you were trying.” 

“yeah.” his laugh breaks in the middle. “trying is a really fun word when someone else has to fix it.”

“don’t do that.”

“i’m not trying to make you comfort me.” he looks at you then. “i promise. i just need you to know i know what happened. i know what you did. i know it wasn’t nothing.”

your throat tightens.

hughie breathes in slowly, like he rehearsed this and still might lose it halfway through. “i’m alive because of you.”

your eyes burn immediately. “hughie.”

“no, please. just—let me say it right once.” his voice shakes. “i’m alive because of you. i’m sorry it cost you that, but i’m not sorry you saved me.”

the words hit somewhere deep and awful. not like butcher’s did. butcher anchored you to the outcome: alive, alive, alive. hughie anchors you to himself. to the fact that he is standing here in front of you, breathing, guilty, grateful, alive in a sweater with too-long sleeves and eyes that refuse to let you turn him into a clean excuse.

you look at him, and for the first time since the warehouse, you can hold the whole thing for more than a second. the guard is dead. hughie is alive. your hands did both. a sound leaves you, small and cracked. 

hughie’s face folds with panic. “no, no, i’m sorry—”

“stop apologizing,” you say, and then you step forward and hug him.

he freezes for half a second, startled. then his arms come around you so tightly you almost lose breath. not enough to hurt. enough to prove he is there. solid. alive. you grip the back of his sweater and close your eyes. alive.

“i’m glad you’re okay,” you whisper.

his breath stutters near your shoulder. “i’m glad you’re okay too.”

you let out a wet little laugh. “debatable.”

“fair.”

you stay there for another few seconds. maybe too long. maybe not enough. when you pull back, his eyes are red, and yours probably are too.

“are we okay?” he asks.

you think about it. then nod. “we’re okay.”

his shoulders drop like the words have taken weight off his bones.

“but if you apologize again,” you add, “i’ll make annie give you the disappointed face.”

hughie winces. “that’s cruel.”

the almost-joke helps. not because anything is fixed, but because the room inside your chest has air in it again. when you both return to the kitchen, annie does not ask. she just puts toast in front of you. mm gives hughie one look, then you, then nods like something has been settled enough for now. kimiko reaches across the counter and squeezes your wrist once, over the raw skin. gentle. brief. you eat half the toast.

the day moves around you in quiet labor. frenchie and mm work through the manuals, finding enough awful details to make the freezer feel less theoretical and more real with every passing hour. butcher reappears around two, accepts that you are upright with one glance, and does not mention last night. that might be his version of mercy. 

soldier boy comes out later, fully dressed now, hair still damp from a shower, expression back to its usual carved annoyance. he sees you at the table. you see him seeing you. nothing happens.

he sits on the couch and complains about the movie selection within five minutes. normal. aggressively normal. you answer him once from the kitchen without thinking, something about his taste being older than color television, and his eyes flick toward you with something that is almost relief before he buries it under a scoff.

the day does not become easy. but it is survivable. night comes slowly. no mission. no training. no urgent move on vought’s shipment yet, because mm and frenchie need time with the manuals and butcher needs time to pretend he is not impatient enough to chew through drywall. the safehouse settles into scattered corners. annie and hughie disappear to the back room with mugs of tea. frenchie falls asleep over a notebook until kimiko makes him get up. mm stays at the table way until dark. butcher goes out to make a call.

you help clean the kitchen because your hands need something simple to do. plates. mugs. crumbs. wipe the counter. fold a towel. put it down. pick it up again. 

then you see the knife. it is on the far side of the counter, beside the sink, cleaned and dry on a folded cloth. frenchie must have left it there after scrubbing the blood from the handle. the blade catches the low kitchen light in one narrow line. ordinary now. almost innocent.

your body stops before your mind does. the safehouse noise thins as you stare at it. you know you should put it away. it is yours. your gear. your responsibility. you will need it again, probably sooner than anyone should. the sheath is empty, and that emptiness has been there all day. 

you reach for it, but your fingers stop inches away.

the handle is clean. you can see that. no blood in the grooves. no red under the edge. no proof except the proof in you. your hand curls back. not yet.

you breathe in once. too shallow. then again. still not enough.

from the living room, the tv crackles with old gunfire. black-and-white shouting. dramatic music under an explosion that sounds too clean. soldier boy is on the couch, one arm over the back, beer on the table in front of him. war movie. of course. the universe has very little imagination.

you leave the knife where it is. you’re not brave enough to touch it tonight.

the couch dips when you sit down on the opposite end from him. soldier boy’s eyes move to you. then past you, toward the kitchen. toward the counter. he knows. maybe he saw the whole thing in the dark reflection of the tv. maybe he guessed from the way your breathing changed. maybe he just knows too much now, and that is becoming a problem.

he doesn’t say anything.

you pull your knees up, tucking your feet beneath you. not close to him—not far enough either. the couch has become its own kind of negotiation.

on screen, soldiers run across fake smoke and painted rubble. after a minute, soldier boy says, “this one’s bullshit.”

you look at the tv. “why do you even watch these?”

that gets him to look at you. his face gives nothing away.  the movie keeps lying to both of you. you watch it anyway.

for a while, neither of you moves closer. his arm stays on his side of the couch. your feet stay tucked beneath you. there is space between your bodies, and in that space sits the knife on the counter, the guard on the floor, hughie’s hug, butcher’s rough voice telling you alive, alive, alive.

then the room gets colder. or maybe you do. you shift once, pulling your sleeves over your hands. soldier boy notices. you know he notices because his eyes move, not to your face, but to the way your shoulders tuck in. 

“window’s open,” he says eventually.

“then close it.”

“you’re closer.”

“you have longer legs.”

“and?”

you stare at the tv. “and i’m emotionally recovering from murder. be useful.” that should be too dark to work. maybe it is. the words leave your mouth and sit there, ugly and honest enough to make you feel exposed.

soldier boy is quiet for a second. then he gets up with a grumble and shuts the window.

you watch him do it without turning your head fully. broad back. loose shirt. bare forearms. the casual irritation in the line of his shoulders, like basic decency is an errand someone keeps making him run.

he returns to the couch and this time, he sits closer. not next to you. not openly. but closer by enough that the cushion dips differently and the warmth of him reaches the edge of your space.

you look at the tv very hard.

he drinks his beer.

the movie continues being terrible.

a few minutes pass.

you don’t decide to move closer so much as stop deciding not to. your body is tired. your head is loud. the knife is still in the kitchen, and the war movie is lying, and soldier boy is warm beside you in a way that does not ask questions.

you shift across the cushion and settle against his side carefully at first, like the wrong movement might ruin the whole thing. your shoulder touches his ribs. then your cheek finds the side of his chest, not exactly the same place as last night, but close enough that your body remembers the shape of resting there. your knees stay tucked beneath you. your hands stay gathered near your stomach, not reaching for him, not yet. just there.

soldier boy goes still. completely still. for a second, you think he might say something awful. or worse, something gentle. his chest lifts under your cheek. “you—”

“don’t make it weird,” you say.

his mouth shuts. the silence that follows is so sharp and immediate that if you had any strength left, you might laugh. instead, you close your eyes.

his arm shifts. not tender in the way people write songs about. it just moves from the backrest and settles behind you, heavy across the couch, his forearm not quite wrapped around you but close enough that if you leaned back, it would hold.

he mutters, “brat.”

you breathe out, almost a laugh. “unstable.”

“snorer.”

“liar.”

his hand comes to rest near your shoulder. not moving. not stroking. just there.

you let yourself sink another inch closer. this time, he doesn’t make a joke. the movie keeps playing. someone on screen gives a speech about sacrifice that neither of you believes. down the hall, the pipes knock inside the wall. the safehouse lives around you in small, stubborn sounds.

you don’t touch the knife. you don’t sleep. but your breathing evens out against soldier boy’s side, and he stays exactly where he is, warm and solid and silent beside you, letting the strange little shape of this exist without naming it.