The Night
The storm had passed, but its echoes haunted the hallways.
Gunpowder still lingered in the broken windows, blood stains faded to rust across the marble floors. The soldiers who survived worked like phantoms themselves—clearing bodies, patching the wounded, dissolving traces. They buried the dead without names and burned what couldn't be buried.
Leo's father remained unconscious in the medical wing, a bullet lodged too close to the spine. Monitors beeped, too quiet. Nurses whispered. No one said it, but everyone felt it: this war had left a permanent mark.
Dominik, hero of the absurd and wounded in a spectacularly dramatic fashion, had his thigh set and wrapped. The cast made his leg stiff and immovable. He was set up on the villa's main couch, surrounded by pillows, snacks, and a barrage of anti-inflammatory meds. He complained loudly and often. But even he was quieter now.
Through the half-closed door of the side room, he could see Leo and Nox.
The light was low. A single desk lamp cast a golden pool over them.
Nox sat still on the edge of the bed, shirtless, his left side heavily bandaged from the waist. Leo knelt in front of him, hands trembling slightly as he wrapped the gauze tighter over the stitched wound. The knot was clumsy, but Nox didn't correct it.
"I—" Leo began, voice rough, like he hadn't spoken in hours.
But he didn't finish.
Instead, a tear dropped. Then another.
Nox tilted his head slightly, the way she always did when she sensed too much emotion. Too much vulnerability. Her violet eyes, always so sharp, softened.
Leo dropped the bandages, hands still halfway through the wrap.
Then, without a word, he buried his face against Nox's good shoulder, arms wrapping around him with the desperation of a man who had almost lost something he couldn't name.
He shook.
He didn't sob out loud. But his whole body curled inward.
Nox didn't flinch.
She raised her arm, slowly, wrapped it around Leo's back, then the other, ignoring the pull of the stitches.
She held him.
She let him cry.
Because she knew that feeling.
The hollow ringing silence that comes when you survive the unspeakable.
The quiet grief of watching people fall while you keep standing.
The ache of holding too much.
She had carried it for years. Carried it through different countries, different lives. Through different masks. But this time, it wasn't just hers.
This time, Leo carried it too.
And maybe—
Maybe that was why she had come.
Not fate. Not orders. Not survival.
Just him.
Just this.
The weight they both carried in silence.
The room stayed quiet.
Dominik watched from the couch. One eye through the half-closed door. His lips parted. He didn't speak.
There was no need.
It wasn't romance. He saw that . It wasn't even desire.
It was something older.
Deeper.
Two wolves from the same storm, leaning on each other because no one else would understand the howling in their ribs.
Leo sniffled once and pulled back, only slightly.
His hands still clung to Nox's arms. "You always show up," he whispered, throat tight. "Always."
Nox leaned forward.
Her voice, usually flat and low, was quiet and certain.
"I'll always stand by your side."
The words rang through Leo like a bell.
Not a promise.
A truth.
They didn't need to understand it.
Didn't need to explain it.
They sat there, forehead to shoulder, heart to steady breath, and let the night pass.
Behind the door, Dominik wiped his eyes with his good hand and muttered into a tissue.
"It's just emotionally devastating. Gods, I love trauma bonding."
No one corrected him.