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He’s been a shield I didn’t ask for and didn’t notice until I felt how quiet the land stayed. Fixing latches that weren’t broken. Re-twisting wire that already held. Absorbing hits meant for this place—for me—without ever naming the cost.

So I choose this.

Not because it fixes anything. Not because it makes him safe, but because it’s mine to give.

I measure by feel—flour cool and powdery against my skin, sugar gritty between my fingers, cinnamon sharp and warm in my nose. The whisk scrapes the bowl, loud in the stillness. Cold autumn air creeps up my sleeves. Shadow noses my calf, hopeful, tail thumping once against the table leg.

The screen door sighs. Hinges complain.

“You planning to burn the place down?”

“Depends.” I keep my back to him, dusting cinnamon off my fingers like this is normal. Like my hands aren’t shaking. “You like your birthday gifts blackened?”

No answer—just a chair dragging across the floor, slow and tired. Coffee follows him in, bitter and dark and human. Steam ghosts up, curls into my face. I breathe it in like it might anchor me. For one fragile second, I let myself pretend this is just a morning.

Then I turn.

He’s hunched over the sink, one hand locked white-knuckled on the counter. His gray Henley is torn and dark beneath his ribs, the fabric blooming red. The blood moves slow, unhurried—like it knows it’s already been given time.

My throat tightens so fast it hurts, like something cinched a wire around it.

“Malek.” His name scrapes out of me. “Please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”

“Don’t.” His hand lifts, palm out, but it isn’t a threat. It’s a wall. “Not unless I say.”

The room tilts. Just a fraction. My pulse spikes hard enough I taste metal. If he’s lying—if this is how it starts—if I missed it⁠—

It should make me step back.

It doesn’t. My feet lock where they are, like the floor’s grabbed hold of me.

“You’re bleeding.” I say it like he might not know. Like the red spreading beneath his ribs hasn’t already told both of us enough. “You need help.”

“I don’t want your damn help, kid.”

The word lands sharp—aimed to wound, to drive space between us. For half a second it works. Heat flares behind my eyes. My hands shake.

Then the fear hits harder.

The thought of him bleeding out quietly at my sink—of finding him cold because I listened⁠—

“Well,” I say, already moving, heart hammering loud enough to drown everything else, “too damn bad.”

“Selah.”

My name breaks in his mouth. Not loud. Not steady. Like it scraped its way out against his will.

It stops me cold.

His eyes—silver and brown—aren’t hard this time. They’re bare. Unarmored. There’s something in them that looks like a step taken without armor, like he’s braced for impact that never comes. Not fear. Not weakness.

Recognition.

Please.

The word lives there without sound. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. The wanting alone looks like it might tear something loose inside him—like asking is the most dangerous thing he knows how to do.

And I know—suddenly, painfully—that this might be the only time he ever does.