Chapter 21

— NOLAN'S POV—

We were both sitting on the couch. I didn't know what to do—alone with him in his space, surrounded by this heavy silence. The air felt dense, like even breathing too loud might shatter something fragile. I needed a distraction. Anything.

Then I remembered his injury.

"Do you have a first-aid kit?" I asked.

He nodded and disappeared into the other room. A few minutes later, he returned with a small white box in his hands.

He tried to insist on treating my scratch first, but I stopped him. His wound was clearly worse. After a moment, he agreed, letting me take the lead.

I told him to remove his shirt so I could reach the cut on his arm. He did. His eyes stayed on me the entire time—unblinking, intense, like he was memorizing me. Or maybe checking that I was still really there. That I hadn't broken.

He let me work silently, dressing his wound as carefully as I could.

Then he said, "Now it's my turn."

The cut on my hand was shallow, barely a mark. But when he took my hand in his, his gaze lingered—just long enough to land on the older scars. The faint, healing lines that I usually kept hidden.

I flinched instinctively, tried to pull my hand back. But he didn't let go.

His grip was gentle, yet firm. His thumb brushed slowly over one of the faded lines.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked quietly.

I didn't answer. Just shook my head.

He started disinfecting the fresh scratch, careful and precise. And then—

I said something I shouldn't have.

"I-It wasn't you, right?" I asked, my voice unsteady. "I know it wasn't… I just… I just need to hear it from you."

I wasn't accusing him. Not really. I was still shaken, still grasping at something solid. I rambled on—trying to justify it, trying to explain—but the words fell flat between us.

His hands froze mid-motion.

He looked at me, and the expression in his eyes felt like a blade to the chest. Like I had pierced something too deep to undo.

I regretted it the second I saw that look.

Yes, he'd stalked me. Yes, I had every reason to be afraid. But in that moment… I felt like the cruel one.

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—VAREK'S POV—

His words didn't register at first.

"It wasn't you, right?"

Just a simple question. Soft. Hesitant.

But it struck like a blade to the ribs.

I stopped moving. The antiseptic pad in my hand hovered mid-air. His voice kept going, trying to soften the blow — "I know it wasn't you, I just wanted to hear it from you."

But it didn't help.

It shattered something.

I blinked at him. My fingers were still wrapped around his wrist, holding him still as I cleaned the small scratch on his skin — a scratch that meant the world to me because it was on him.

And yet he thought I—

My throat burned.

"You think I could do something like that to you?" I said quietly.

The voice didn't sound like mine. Too low. Too broken. It came from somewhere deep — somewhere tired, and wrecked, and maybe a little hollow now.

He tried to backtrack. "I'm not saying it was you, I just—"

"Then why did you ask?" I interrupted. My voice sharpened. Not out of anger — out of sheer disbelief. "Why would you need to hear it from me?"

He didn't have an answer. Of course he didn't. And I didn't wait for one.

I gently let go of his hand and stood, not trusting myself to stay close to him anymore. If I stayed, I might say something worse. Something pathetic. Something desperate.

I turned my back on him, but the words kept pouring out, as if they needed him to know.

"If there ever comes a moment where one of us has to die…" I said quietly, "…I'd choose myself. Without hesitation. Every damn time, Nolan. You know that, don't you?"

Silence.

God, the silence.

I wanted him to say yes. I wanted him to beg for forgiveness, to grab my hand, to say I know, I'm sorry, I was scared. I would've forgiven him in a heartbeat. I would've kissed the floor beneath his feet.

But he just sat there.

Maybe too stunned. Maybe too ashamed. Or maybe he really didn't believe in me the way I believed in him.

That was the worst part.

I gestured vaguely toward the hallway, swallowing the lump in my throat. "The guest room's across from mine. Clean sheets. Lock on the door, if you need it."

He reached for me — a half-formed apology, a broken "Varek, wait—"

I couldn't.

I left before he could say anything else.

My room was too quiet. Too still. I didn't turn on the light. Just sat on the edge of my bed in the dark, the way I always did before I found him again.

Only this time… the darkness didn't feel comforting.

It felt empty.

Because now I knew the truth — even after everything, even after bleeding for him, stalking him, saving him — he still doubted me.

And no matter how much I told myself he was scared, confused, shaken…

It still hurt like hell.