summary: after stumbling home bruised and bleeding, Joel lets you patch him up in the bathroom. Under the cracked mirrorâs light, but through quiet care and a few raw words, you show him what he canât see himself â that heâs still human, still worth loving.
You hear the door before you see him. The old wood groans like itâs complaining, and the sound makes something inside you tense. Itâs late, too late for the world outside to be anything but trouble. When you step into the hallway, Joelâs thereâhalf in shadow, one shoulder pressed to the doorframe as though itâs the only thing keeping him upright.
His shirtâs torn open at the seam, dirt smudged across the fabric, a line of dried blood tracing his side. Heâs breathing hard, not quite panting but close, and the sight of him like that â hurt again, worn thin â makes your stomach turn over.
âHey,â you say, voice soft but steady.
He doesnât answer. He just pushes past you, letting the door fall shut with a hollow thud that echoes through the quiet. The lamplight in the kitchen is dim and golden, and it hits him as he moves, a bruise blooming purple along his jaw, a cut darkening beneath his eye. You watch him sink into one of the old chairs, the kind that creaks like itâs seen too much.
You reach for the first-aid kit automatically. âCome on,â you murmur. âBathroom.â.
He grumbles something low, half protest, but you donât give him a choice. You flick on the small light above the sink, and the mirror flashes briefly before steadying, its surface cracked through the middle like a lightning scar.
The bathroom smells faintly of soap and the ghost of steam from earlier. Joel leans against the sink, one hand gripping the edge. The tile reflects the faint hum of the bulb, washing everything in soft amber.
âThought you said youâd take it easy today,â you murmur, half scolding, half teasing.
He snorts, a sound without any real humor. âThings got messy,â he says, which is Joel-speak for I nearly didnât make it back.
You could press him, ask what happened, but you donât. Youâve learned that sometimes silence does more good than words. You unbutton whatâs left of his torn flannel, peeling the fabric gently away from his shoulder. He winces but doesnât stop you. The cut along his arm has already started to scab, but the skin around it is raw. You wet a cloth with warm water, wring it out, and start cleaning the blood away in slow, steady circles.
âHold still,â you mutter.
When you glance up, you catch him staring, not at you, not at the wall, but at the cracked mirror propped against the far side of the room. Youâve seen it there for months, a forgotten thing that no oneâs bothered to move. Now, under the lamplight, its fractured surface scatters his reflection into broken fragments.
Joelâs gaze lingers on it for a moment before skittering away. Itâs subtle, the avoidance, but you see it.
âSeriously?â you ask, half smiling, hoping to coax something out of him. âYouâre glaring at that mirror like it did somethinâ wrong.â
He huffs, almost a laugh but not quite. âDonât like lookinâ at it,â he mutters, low and uneven.
He hesitates, fingers curling against the edge of the table. âDonât recognize the guy anymore,â he says finally. âLook at him, donât even know who the hell that is.â
Thereâs no drama in the way he says it. Just quiet shame. That makes it worse somehow.
You set the cloth down, take his wrist gently in your hand. âJoel,â you start, but the words come slow, cautious. âYouâre still you.â
He shakes his head, not looking up. âYou donât see it.â
You squeeze his hand, steady but firm. âNo, you donât see it. Youâre too close to it. Too busy countinâ every scar like itâs proof of somethinâ ugly.â
He exhales through his nose, a sound like disbelief. âAnd what do you see then?â he asks, voice tight. âSome hero?â
You smile faintly, shaking your head. âNot a hero. But not a monster, either. I see someone whoâs still here, even when it wouldâve been easier not to be. Someone who keeps tryinâ.â
He doesnât respond. The lamp hums quietly; the floor creaks as the night settles deeper. His eyes flick back toward the mirror again, and this time he doesnât look away so fast.
âYou make it sound simple,â he mutters, though thereâs no bite to it.
âItâs not simple,â you say, leaning forward, voice softer. âBut itâs true. The bruises, the scars, they donât erase who you are. They just⌠mark the places youâve been.â
For a while, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches, but it isnât heavy. You can hear the faint rasp of his breathing, the distant whistle of wind outside. His hand, still caught in yours, warms slowly under your touch.
âI donât know if I deserve that,â he says at last, barely audible.
âYou donât have to deserve it,â you answer. âYou just take it. Thatâs enough.â
He lets out a low laugh, almost self-mocking. âAinât that easy.â
âI didnât say it was easy,â you whisper, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. âJust that itâs yours.â
He flinches at the touch, but only for a heartbeat. Then he relaxes, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. The exhaustion thatâs been clinging to him seems to spill out in the quiet.
You rest your forehead lightly against his. âYou see that man in the mirror, Joel? The one you thinkâs beyond saving? Thatâs not the man I see.â
He breathes out, long and shaky. His eyes close. âI see him sometimes,â he says. âThe one in the glass. And I hate him for what heâs done. For what he couldnât stop.â
You close your hand around his. âYou wonât see it alone,â you say. âYou never do. Iâll be here. Iâll tell you what I see every time, until you believe it.â
He smiles faintly, a ghost of something real. âYouâre damn stubborn.â
âAlways,â you grin, pressing a light kiss against his temple. âGuess you rubbed off on me.â
That earns a small sound from him half laugh, half sigh. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, hesitant, like heâs afraid the moment might break if he moves too much.
âYou really think thereâs somethinâ left worth lookinâ at?â he asks, still not meeting your eyes.
âI know there is,â you say. âYouâre just too used to the cracks to notice the reflection.â
He doesnât answer right away. When he finally looks at you, thereâs something fragile in his gaze, something that wasnât there before.
âYou make it sound like I can just⌠forget,â he murmurs.
You shake your head. âNo. Not forget. Just remember that youâre more than the worst thing youâve done.â
Joel sits back a little, eyes flicking to the mirror again. The lamplight catches the web of cracks running through it, splitting his reflection into a dozen uneven pieces. You can tell he hates it, the reminder of how fractured everything feels, but this time, he doesnât look away.
You reach up, let your fingertips trace the edge of his jaw. âYouâre still you,â you say quietly. âBruised, tired, human. But you.â
He snorts softly, shaking his head. âYou got a real bad habit of sayinâ the nicest things when I donât deserve âem.â
âMaybe thatâs when you need âem most.â
That earns you another one of those almost laughs, the kind that barely makes a sound but shifts something inside him. Then he sighs, leaning forward, resting his forehead against yours again.
âNever thought anyoneâd see that,â he admits. âNot really.â
âI always have,â you say. âEven when you couldnât.â
The words sit there between you, quiet and unshakable.
His hand finds your cheek then, thumb brushing gently along your skin. His palm is rough, warm every callus a story. âYou make it easier,â he says, and thereâs a tremor in it, an honesty that cracks something open. âDonât know if Iâd still be here without that.â
âYou donât have to find out,â you tell him. âYouâre stuck with me.â
He lets out a small breath, something close to relief, and his lips curve into a faint, private smile. The kind of smile you only ever see when heâs too tired to hide it.
You let your hand drift down to his, fingers threading together. The air between you feels lighter now, though neither of you says much. The lamp hums. The night stretches on.
After a while, you pull back just enough to look at him properly. âCome on,â you murmur. âLetâs get you cleaned up right. Canât have you wanderinâ around Jackson lookinâ like a bear took a swipe at you.â
He chuckles under his breath, the sound soft, almost shy. âYeah. Alright.â
You fetch clean bandages, new cloths, fresh water. He watches you move around the kitchen, the rhythm familiar, comforting. When you return to him, the tension in his face has eased.
Neither of you speaks much while you work. Thereâs no need. The quiet feels different now, not heavy, not strained, just *there.* A shared kind of peace that doesnât demand to be named.
When you finish, you step back, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. Joelâs still watching you, eyes softer than theyâve been all night. Something about that look makes your chest ache in the best possible way.
âWhat?â you ask, smiling.
He shakes his head slowly, voice rough when he answers. âNothinâ. Just⌠didnât think Iâd ever feel like this again.â
He hesitates, then shrugs one shoulder. âLike maybe I ainât past fixinâ.â
You reach out, resting a hand on his shoulder. âYou were never broken,â you tell him gently. âJust a little cracked. Like that mirror.â
He follows your gaze toward it, and this time, he doesnât flinch. He looks, really looks and in the fractured glass, the light catches both of you, standing close.
Thereâs no perfection in the reflection. Just two people, tired and scarred, holding on anyway.
Joelâs hand finds yours again. âGuess the cracks donât look so bad from here,â he says quietly.
You smile, squeezing his fingers. âThey never did.â
For a long moment, the world holds still. The lamp hums softly. The wind outside sighs against the walls. He leans in, presses his forehead to yours once more, and the simple weight of that gesture says everything neither of you needs to put into words.
You stay there like that, in the quiet, breathing the same air, hearts steady and sure.
When he finally opens his eyes, thereâs something different in them. Not peace exactly, but something close. Something that might grow into it.
And in the cracked mirror behind him, for the first time in a long time, Joel doesnât look away.
He looks. And maybe, just maybe, he starts to see what youâve seen all along
