Heavy hands — VII (Patreon)

Author’s note: hello everyone! I hope you are doing well. Here is a new chapter of heavy hands.

🚨 WARNINGS: +18 content and explicit language. Read at your own discretion.

The sheets clung warm and damp to her bare skin, muscles aching in places she hadn’t even known could ache. For a few blissful seconds, she let herself float in that hazy space between sleep and memory — until the weight of what had happened the night before came crashing down on her.

Her first time. With him.

Her lashes fluttered open, and the pale wash of early light was spilling through the thin curtains. It took a moment to realize the bed wasn’t empty.

Harry was sitting at the edge, broad shoulders bare, head bent forward, his elbows braced on his knees. The tattoos across his back twisted as he moved a hand through his curls. He wasn’t asleep. He hadn’t been asleep for a while.

He turned when he felt her stir, green eyes catching hers in the muted light. There was something unreadable in his face — not regret, not quite softness either.

Something heavier, guarded, as if he was still trying to convince himself it had happened.

“Hey,” her voice cracked, small and unsure.

He hummed in reply, a low sound from the back of his throat. He didn’t say goodmorning. He didn’t ask if she slept well. Instead, he just looked at her — really looked — like she was still something he couldn’t figure out, like he was memorizing how she looked tangled in his sheets.

She flushed under his stare, instinctively tugging the blanket higher over her chest.

“Don’t,” he said, voice gravelled from sleep — or maybe from whatever storm had been turning over in his head. His gaze dragged over her face, her throat, the faint red marks blooming on her collarbone where his mouth had been.

The words sent a shiver down her spine. She gripped the blanket anyway, heart pounding. “I just… I don’t know what to say.”

Harry turned back slightly, resting his forearms on his thighs again. For a moment, he looked like he might retreat into silence, into that cold, unreachable part of him.

But then he shook his head and muttered, almost to himself, “Fuckin’ hell…”

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t romantic. But the way he said it — like she’d gotten under his skin, like she’d broken through where no one else had — made her chest tighten.

When she finally sat up, the blanket slipped, and Harry’s gaze flicked down before he could stop it. His jaw clenched, and he looked away, running a hand over his mouth. Not because he didn’t want to see, but because if he did, he might not be able to stop himself.

“Are you… okay?” he asked finally, eyes still on the floor. It sounded gruff, almost impatient, but she caught the edge beneath it — the question he was really asking: Did I hurt you? Did I go too far?

She nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… sore.” Her lips curved shyly. “But… I’m okay. I’m more than okay.”

That dragged his gaze back to her. He studied her face, searching for any trace of doubt. When he didn’t find it, his shoulders eased — barely, but enough that she noticed.

Harry reached over then, fingers brushing her wrist, rough knuckles grazing soft skin. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just grounding her, anchoring her in the moment.

His thumb traced the inside of her wrist, slow, deliberate — then without warning, he leaned in and caught her mouth with his. The kiss was nothing like careful. It was hungry, greedy, the kind that made her forget she was sore, forget that it was morning, forget everything but him.

She gasped into him when his tongue slid against hers, when his hand came up to cup her jaw, tilting her head so he could kiss her deeper, harder. She still smelled faintly of her perfume — sweet and familiar — but now it mixed with the faint, heady scent of him, sweat and smoke and sex. The combination made his chest ache, made him kiss her rougher.

Her skin was warm everywhere he touched, soft against his calloused hands, and he couldn’t fucking get enough. He pulled back just long enough to mutter against her lips, “yeh drive me insane.”

Before she could answer, his hand wrapped firmly around her arm and he tugged her onto his lap. She gave a startled sound as her knees straddled him, the blanket slipping away, leaving her bare in the dim light. He hissed when her skin pressed against his chest, every inch of her molding to him.

He kissed her like he was starving, his lips ravaging hers, his teeth dragging across her bottom lip before his mouth trailed down her neck. He found the spot that made her shiver and bit gently, soothing it with his tongue before movinglower.

Her fingers curled into his hair, tugging when she felt his other hand push down the waistband of his boxers with impatient force. His cock sprang free, hot and heavy against her thigh, and she gasped at the sudden reality of it.

Harry groaned low, grinding up against her. “You feel that, love?” he murmured against her collarbone, his voice wrecked, thick with want. “That’s what you fuckin’ do to me.”

Harry groaned when her hips shifted on his lap, the head of his cock sliding against her slick folds. The sound that tore from her throat was sharp and startled, but there was no fear in it this time — only need. He dragged his mouth back to hers, swallowing her whimper as his hands clamped onto her waist.

“Fuck, you’re already wet for me,” he rasped against her lips, voice dripping with disbelief and hunger. His thumb pressed into the soft curve of her hip, holding her still as he rocked upward, grinding against her in slow, devastating strokes. “Couldbury myself in you all day.”

Her body trembled against him, heat curling in her stomach as the friction madeher gasp. “Harry—”

“Shh,” he cut in, mouth at her throat now, tongue darting against her pulse. “Don’t think. Just feel.”Her head tipped back helplessly as he shifted his hips, angling himself against her entrance. He didn’t push in yet — just teased, nudged, let her feel the thick headof him parting her folds. Her thighs clenched tighter around him, desperate, andhe groaned at the pressure.

“Beg for it,” he muttered, teeth grazing the swell of her breast. His hand shot up, palming her there roughly before his mouth closed over her nipple, sucking hard. The sharp cry that left her lips made his cock twitch.

“I… I want you,” she whispered, face flushed, eyes wide with both nerves and desire.

He looked up then, lips red, chest heaving. His green eyes pinned her in place.

“Not good enough,” he said, voice rough. His hand slid down, two fingers circling her clit with a firm, practiced touch that made her jolt. “Tell me exactly what you want.” Her body was already arching into him, chasing the pleasure, the demand in his tone unraveling her last bit of shyness. “I want you inside me,” she gasped.

“Please, Harry. I want you to fuck me.”

A wicked smirk curved his mouth. “That’s my girl.”

In one fluid thrust, he pulled her down onto him, the stretch sudden, delicious, making both of them groan into each other’s mouths. He filled her to the hilt, her nails raking down his back as her body adjusted.

“ Jesus Christ,” he hissed, forehead pressing to hers as he fought for control. “You feel like you were made for me.” She clung to him, gasping at the burn, the fullness. But he was already moving, shallow at first, then deeper, each thrust stronger than the last as he guided her hips down to meet his. The sounds between them were obscene — the wet slide of her arousal, the slap of skin, her soft whimpers mixing with his guttural groans.

Her breasts bounced with each movement, catching his eye, and he couldn’t resist cupping one, thumb rolling her nipple as his mouth claimed hers again. “Look at you,” he growled into the kiss. “Taking me so fuckin’ well.”

He set a punishing rhythm, dragging her up and slamming her down again, until she was crying out with every thrust. He bent forward, biting at her neck, sucking bruises that would last for days. His hand slid between their bodies, finding her clit, and the extra friction tore a sharp cry from her lips.

“That’s it,” he urged, almost desperate, his voice rough with need. “Come for me baby” Her body tightened around him, the coil snapping as she screamed his name,trembling and clenching around him in waves. The sight, the sound, the feel of her breaking apart in his lap dragged a brutal groan from his chest.

“Fuck—fuck—” he snarled, hips slamming into her one last time before he spilled deep inside her, clutching her to him like he couldn’t let her go.

For a long moment, the only sound was their heavy breathing, their sweat-slicked bodies clinging together. Harry buried his face in her neck, his arms still iron around her. He didn’t say anything — but the way he held her, the way he kissed the damp skin just beneath her ear, said everything his mouth couldn’t.

Her body was still buzzing when she finally peeled herself off his lap, legs shaky as she slid under the sheets. Harry leaned back on the edge of the bed, chest heaving, head tipped against the wall, like he was trying to wrestle himself back under control.

She stared at him in the quiet, the ink sprawling over his skin, the sheen of sweat catching in the pale morning light. Her gaze snagged on a scar that cut across his ribs, pale against his tan. Then another on his shoulder, jagged, old. They weren’t the kind of scars you got from clumsy accidents. They told a story — one he’d never let her read.

She opened her mouth before she could stop herself. “Does it hurt? Any of them?”

His eyes flicked to her, sharp and unreadable, then down at the mark she was staring at. For a moment, he said nothing. Then: “Not anymore.” His tone made it clear he wasn’t offering more.

She swallowed, nodded, pulling the sheet higher over her chest. He wasn’t going to let her in like that. Not yet.

Harry pushed off the bed, dragging his boxers back on, running a hand through his damp curls. “You got food here?” he asked, like the question could erase everything heavy that had just hung between them.

She blinked. “Uh… yeah. Kitchen’s down the hall.”

He glanced over his shoulder, smirk twitching at his lips. “Get dressed then. Can’t have you walkin’ out there lookin’ like I just fucked you”.

Her cheeks flamed, but she didn’t argue. She pulled on the first thing she could grab — his shirt — and watched the way his jaw ticked when he noticed.

The dorm kitchen was small, just a cramped counter, a fridge, and a stove shoved against the wall. Sunlight spilled through the window, catching the dust in the air.

The kitchen felt smaller with him in it, like the walls bent closer around his broad shoulders and tattooed arms. He leaned lazily against the counter, boxers slung low on his hips, watching her rummage through cabinets.

“You ever gonna sit down and let me do somethin’?” he drawled, voice rough but laced with amusement.

She shot him a look over her shoulder, holding up a box of cereal. “What, you cook?”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “Could. Won’t.”

She laughed, the sound bubbling out before she could stop it. The smirk on his face deepened at the sight of her — hair mussed from his hands, his shirt hangingoff her bare thighs, cheeks pink in the sunlight.

When she turned back with the bowls, he reached out, snagging her wrist and pulling her closer. She stumbled into his space, caught between his legs as hespread them slightly, caging her in against the counter.

“You look too good in that,” he murmured, tugging at the hem of his own shirt draped over her body. His eyes dragged over her legs, then back up to her face.

“Could get used to seein’ you like this.”

Her stomach fluttered at the words, but she tried to cover it with a teasing smile.

“Domestic isn’t really your vibe.”

He hummed, head tipping, eyes sharp on hers. “And you’d know my vibe already, yea?” His tone was challenging, but there was a glimmer of something softer underneath, something that made her throat tighten.

Instead of answering, she pressed a bowl into his chest. “Eat, Styles. You’ll need the energy.”

He barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he took it. “Cheeky little thing.”

For a few minutes, the air shifted — lighter, easier. He sat at the small table, hunched over the bowl while she perched across from him. His long fingers dwarfed the spoon, tattoos flexing with each movement. She caught herself staring more than once, and every time his eyes flicked up to catch her, she felt heat crawl up her neck.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said finally, voice low and full of warning, and I’ll end up takin’ you right here on this table.”

Her spoon clattered into her bowl, and his grin spread slow and wicked at her wide-eyed expression.

The moment was cut short when his phone buzzed against the counter. Loud. Insistent. Harry’s gaze flicked over, and in an instant, the easy smirk vanished. His jaw tightened, shoulders stiffening.

He didn’t move at first, just stared at the screen.

“Harry?” she asked softly.

He shoved back his chair, snatching the phone up. One look at the name flashing across the display and his whole face changed — colder, harder, like a door slamming shut.

“Who is it?” she pressed, heart sinking at the shift in him.

His thumb hit the lock screen, killing the light. He shoved the phone into his pocket and stood, grabbing his half-finished bowl. “No one.”

But his clipped tone, the tension in his movements, told her it wasn’t no one.

Whoever it was belonged to the world he hadn’t let her see — the world that always seemed to be waiting just outside her door.

The phone buzzed again, harsher this time.

Harry’s jaw flexed as he stared at the screen. Then, without a word, he shoved away from the table, chair scraping the tile, and strode out of the kitchen. The door swung shut behind him with a muted thud.

Y/N sat frozen, spoon limp in her hand, the silence swallowing her whole. She could hear his voice from the hallway — low, sharp, words clipped and fast. She couldn’t make them out, but the tone made her chest tighten. He wasn’t the Harry who had been teasing her a minute ago. This voice was colder, darker, dangerous.

When he finally came back, he looked different. His expression was blank in that way that wasn’t blank at all, just armor.

He didn’t explain. Didn’t offer anything. He simply dropped back into his chair, grabbed the spoon, and started shoveling cereal into his mouth like nothing had happened.

She watched him, trying to read the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the bowl. She wanted to ask. She wanted to push. But she knew — one wrong move and he’d pull all the way back, retreat behind those walls for good.

So she forced a smile, picked up her own bowl, and followed his lead. The crunchof cereal filled the silence, absurdly loud.

When he was done, he stood, muscles shifting under his tattoos as he moved toward her room. She trailed after him, carrying her half-eaten bowl, heart hammering against her ribs.

Inside, he pulled his clothes back on with quick, efficient movements.

The softness of earlier was gone, replaced with something taut and unspoken.

“I need to go,” he muttered, tugging his belt into place.

She froze by the desk, clutching her bowl to her chest like a shield. “Okay.”

When he looked up and saw her, he stilled. His eyes dragged over her slowly, deliberately, heat flickering beneath the tension in his face.

“That’s mine,” he muttered, voice low as he tugged his belt into place.

She tugged at the hem, clutching the fabric closer to herself. “So? Looks better on me.”

A short, rough laugh escaped him. He stepped closer, hand catching the edge of the shirt. His knuckles brushed her hip as he tugged lightly, enough to make her stumble a step into his space.

“Not the point, sweetheart,” he said, smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Need it back.”

Her pulse quickened, part of her wanting to argue, to tease him, to keep this small piece of him. But his eyes burned down at her, and she knew he wasn’t just talkingabout fabric. Still, she whispered, “What if I don’t wanna give it back?”

For a moment — just a fleeting moment — the smirk softened into something else.

His fingers flexed against the cotton, his gaze dipping down her body before snapping back to her face.

“You’ll give it back,” he murmured, but the way his thumb brushed her thigh felt like a promise more than a demand.

The buzz of his phone in his pocket shattered the air between them. His jaw tightened instantly, grip loosening as he stepped back. Whatever softness she’d seen flickered out, like a flame snuffed in the wind.

He yanked on his jacket, voice clipped again. “I need to go.”

She stood frozen in the shirt, skin still tingling where his hand had been, watching as the version of him she almost had slipped away again.

Just as he reached the door, he spun back toward her. His hand cupped the back of her neck, dragging her into a kiss that was all teeth and heat — rough, rushed, like he didn’t have time to linger but couldn’t leave without tasting her again. She gasped against his mouth, clutching at him, and he bit at her bottom lip before pulling back.

His forehead rested against hers for half a second, breath hot, chest heaving.

“You remember where I live?”

Her nod was shaky, lips swollen from the kiss. “Yeah.”

“Good.” His thumb brushed her jaw once, a fleeting softness before his eyes hardened again. “I expect you there tonight.”

The words weren’t a question. They weren’t even really an invitation. They were a demand, threaded with something that made her knees weaken.

And then he was gone — door clicking shut, his presence lingering like smoke in the room, leaving her reeling in the silence, already waiting for nightfall.

I expect you there tonight.

It replayed in her head like a loop, every syllable winding tighter around her. Sheknew it wasn’t really a request — Harry never asked. And yet, instead of fear or

hesitation, there was this hum inside her, low and persistent, that made her restless.

She shook herself, finally peeling off his shirt and tossing it over the chair before tugging on a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. She had a full day ahead of her — coffee shift, classwork piling up, laundry that had been sitting for a week. Normal things. Safe things.

But nothing about today felt normal.

By the time the sun dipped fully below the horizon, Y/N had given up pretending she was focused on anything but him. Her notes blurred together, laundry sat unfolded in the corner, and all she could hear was the low rasp of his voice in her head.

She stood in front of the tiny mirror bolted to her dorm wall, biting her lip. What did you wear when a man like Harry told you to show up? The part of her that wanted to be bold considered slipping into something lacy, maybe the dress shoved in the back of her closet. But another part whispered that he’d see right through it, that he’d know she was trying too hard.

She sighed, pulling out a pair of jeans and a simple black top — fitted enough to feel like armor, casual enough to pass as effortless. She tugged his shirt out of the

chair and held it for a moment, fingers brushing the worn cotton. It still smelled faintly of him. Her heart thudded at the thought of walking into his place wearing it, but in the end, she folded it carefully and tucked it into her drawer, like a secret.

Her hands shook as she brushed her hair, smoothed lotion into her skin, checked her reflection again and again. No amount of lip balm or mascara could cover the nerves simmering just beneath the surface.

By the time she laced her sneakers, her pulse was wild in her throat.

The campus paths were quiet as she made her way across them, the streetlights buzzing faintly overhead. Every step closer to his building tightened something inside her chest. She rehearsed what she might say when he opened the door.

Casual? Teasing? Or nothing at all, letting him take the lead the way he always did?

When she reached his street, she stopped at the corner, staring at the familiarbuilding. Her palms were damp, her stomach coiled with nerves and something darker, heavier: anticipation.

She stood there a moment longer, pulling in a shaky breath. Then, gathering every ounce of courage she had, she stepped toward his door. Her knuckles barely grazed the wood before it swung open.

Harry stood framed in the dim glow of the apartment light — and her breath stuttered.

He was wrecked.

His right eye was nearly swollen shut, an ugly bruise spreading across his cheekbone. His nose sat crooked, streaked with dried blood, and his lip split raw.

His body leaned protectively to one side, every breath shallow, ribs straining under his shirt.

For a heartbeat, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. He said nothing, offered noexplanation — just stepped back, letting the door creak wider. His green eyeswere shards of glass, unreadable through the damage.

She hesitated, torn between reaching for him and bolting. But her feet carried her inside, into the thick air reeking of smoke and whiskey.

Harry turned without a word, gait uneven as he pushed open the balcony door.

City sounds bled in as he dropped into a chair, a cigarette glowing between his fingers.

Y/N lingered in the doorway, arms hugging tight around her frame. The man she’d ached for all day — the man who’d kissed her like he’d come undone that morning— now sat shattered and silent, smoke curling into the night.

Her throat burned. She wanted to scream, to demand who’d done this to him. But all that came was a whisper.

“Harry…”

No glance. No answer. Just another drag, the ember flaring bright.

“Your face—” her voice cracked, “—you need a hospital. You can’t just—”

His laugh was low, jagged, bitter. “Don’t need a fuckin’ hospital.”

She flinched but stepped closer anyway. “Then at least let me—”

“Don’t.” The word cut like a whip, sharp and final. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, smoke spilling from his lips. “Don’t start thinkin’ you’ve got a say in this.”

Her chest tightened. “I’m just trying to—”

“You’re just a girl I’m fuckin’.” The words shattered between them, cold and deliberate. “Don’t make it into somethin’ it’s not.”

The silence after was brutal. Her lungs burned as if he’d struck her. “That’s all I am to you?” The words trembled, but she forced them out.

His jaw flexed, eyes hard even through the swelling. He didn’t answer at first —just dragged deep on the cigarette, exhaling smoke slow enough to suffocate.

Finally, his voice dropped, rough and unyielding.

“You don’t get to ask where I’ve been. You don’t get to ask why I look like this. You don’t get to touch this part of me.” His gaze snapped to hers, sharp and cutting.

“You understand?”

Her eyes burned. Every part of her wanted to shout that he was lying — that no one kissed like he did unless it meant something. But his words had teeth, and they sank deep.

She clenched her fists until her nails bit her palms. She almost swallowed it,almost turned to leave. But the poison of his voice echoed in her head, and something inside her snapped.

“You know what’s pathetic, Harry?” Her voice shook, but the steel in it rang clear.

“That you think pushing people away makes you strong. But it doesn’t. It just makes you a coward.”

His face shifted, something flickering in his eyes. She pressed on.

“You hide behind bruises and smoke because you’re terrified someone might actually care. And you know what?” Her throat tightened, but she forced the words. “I don’t buy it. You don’t scare me. You just make me sorry for you.”

She turned then, fast, her footsteps sharp against the floor. Tears blurred her vision as she reached the door, hand closing around the handle.

Behind her, silence pressed heavy — until the scrape of a chair broke it.

“Y/N—”

His voice was rough, unsteady — not the blade that had cut her minutes ago, but something frayed, unraveling.

Her hand froze on the doorknob. Behind her came the shuffle of uneven steps, the drag of his limp as he followed.

“Don’t walk out.” His tone was low, urgent, shredded at the edges.

She turned slightly, and there he was — bruised, broken, standing in the glow of the balcony light, chest heaving, eyes burning into her like she’d gutted him.

Before she could twist the handle, his fingers closed around her arm. Rough, unyielding. He spun her back, pulling her straight into his chest.

She stumbled, breath catching at the heat of him, his grip fierce despite the pain etched in his body.

“Let me go—”

“Not a fuckin’ chance,” Harry snarled, voice wrecked, thick with something that wasn’t anger alone. His breath fanned hot across her face, smoke and whiskey clinging to it — but underneath was something rawer. Desperate.

She shoved against him, palms pressing hard to the planes of his chest. “You don’t get to tear me apart and then stop me—”

“The hell I don’t.” His words were a growl, dragging her closer until there was no air left between them. His chest rose and fell against hers, each inhale jagged, broken, but relentless. “You think you can walk out after that? After lookin’ me in the eye and callin’ me a coward?”

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t flinch. “If the shoe fits.”

Something flickered in his eyes — not pure rage, not anymore. It was something cracked, bleeding through, something he hated showing. His jaw ticked, teeth grinding like the words burned coming out.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” he rasped, voice breaking. “What I’ve had to be just to survive. And you stand there, lookin’ at me like that, callin’ me—”

He choked it off, breath catching, his whole frame trembling. “You don’t get to say that. Not you.”

Her heart slammed, fury and sorrow colliding in her chest. “Then stop proving me right.”

The air snapped taut. They stood locked in place, her chest heaving against his, his grip bruising at her arm, silence alive with everything neither could say. His face was battered, broken — but his eyes blazed, fierce and desperate, fighting her and himself all at once.

And then, with a sound halfway between a curse and a prayer, he kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was messy and furious, his mouth crashing against hers like he was trying to silence her, to punish her, to pull her back all at once. Her fingers curled in his shirt without meaning to, yanking him closer even as her mind screamed at her to pull away.

She pushed him back mid-kiss, breath coming fast, eyes burning. Her palm landed against his chest with more force than she intended. “You think you can just put your mouth on me and erase what you said? It doesn’t work like that, Harry.”

He froze, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild. His voice dropped, low and torn.

“Then what should I do?”

Her answer cut through the haze between them, sharp and simple. “Start with saying sorry.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, jaw working, like the word was a foreign thing he didn’t know how to shape. His grip loosened on her arm, but he didn’t let go entirely. “I’m sorry,” he rasped finally, the words raw, dragged up from somewhere deep and reluctant. His gaze flicked away for half a second, ashamed, before draggingback to her face. “I shouldn’t have said that. Not to you.”

Her chest tightened, anger softening under the weight of what she saw — not the cocky, untouchable Harry who kept her at arm’s length, but a man cracked and bruised, holding himself together with nothing but sheer will.

“I’m only asking because I care,” she whispered, voice breaking with the admission. “And that’s okay, Harry. It’s okay for someone to care.”

The muscles in his jaw trembled, his breath rough as if the words hit deeper than he wanted to admit. He searched her face, like he was looking for the lie, for the catch — and finding none.

His hand slipped from her arm to her waist, pulling her closer with a gentleness that surprised them both. “Don’t know what the fuck to do with that,” he muttered, his forehead pressing against hers, the fight bleeding out of him.

Her chest rose and fell, steadying as she let her forehead rest against his for just a breath. Then she eased back, scanning his battered face in the dim light — the swollen eye, the cut dragging across his cheekbone, the bruises beginning to

bloom along his jaw and ribs. The anger still burned in her chest, but now it was tangled with something heavier.

“You need to sit down,” she said softly, her hand brushing the line of his jaw with care. “You can barely stand.”

Harry gave a half-smirk, half-grimace. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” The firmness in her voice surprised even her. “Let me take care of you.”

For a second, he looked like he might argue, but whatever fight he had left flickered out. He gave a small nod, allowing her to guide him toward the bathroom.

The tiles were cool beneath her feet as she leaned over the tub, turning the knobs until steam curled in the air. She poured in a capful of soap she found tucked on the shelf, the scent faint but clean, then tested the water with her hand. Warm, soothing. Perfect.

When she turned, he was standing in the doorway, watching her. His shirt hung loose, bloodied at the collar, and for once, he didn’t have the armor of his smirk or his sharp words. Just tired eyes and a body that had taken too many blows.

“C’mere,” she said gently, coaxing him in.

He stepped forward, wincing with each movement, and sat on the edge of the tub.

She crouched in front of him, fingers skimming the hem of his shirt before glancing up for permission. He gave the faintest nod, and she peeled it off carefully, her breath catching at the sight of his chest — mottled with bruises, scars layered like a roadmap of pain, his ribs shifting too carefully beneath his skin.

She touched him feather-light, fingers tracing over the marks — not withjudgment, but with quiet awe, like she was cataloguing everything he’d survived.

He huffed, shifting, almost embarrassed. “You’re starin’”.

“Because you’re hurt,” she murmured. “Because I care.” That shut him up. His throat worked, gaze sliding away as if the words were too much to hold.

She guided him toward the tub, steadying him as he lowered himself in. He hissed when the heat first kissed his skin, but let her ease him down, inch by inch, until the water wrapped around him. Slowly, the fight bled from his shoulders. His head tipped back against the porcelain, lashes fluttering shut. For the first time, he looked… younger. Softer. Human.

She knelt beside him, trailing her fingers through the water before reaching for awashcloth. She wrung it out, pressed it gentle against the cut on his cheek. He didn’t even flinch.

Her voice was quiet, aching curiosity. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

His jaw flexed, eyes still shut. “’Cause it’s all I know.”

Her chest pinched, but she didn’t press. She just ran the cloth down his arm, rinsing sweat and blood away in slow, steady passes.

“I don’t need to know everything,” she whispered, almost more to herself than to him. “But I want you to know… you don’t have to do it alone.”

That made his lashes flicker. His eyes opened, green meeting hers, raw and unguarded. Vulnerable. Dangerous in its own way.

“You’re not safe with me,” he said hoarsely, voice cracking like it cost him something to admit.

“Then let me decide that,” she breathed. “Let me choose you.”

The bathroom fell quiet, save for the drip-drip of water from the faucet. And in that silence, something between them shifted. Not lust. Not anger. Something heavier.

Scarier.

Something that terrified him more than both.