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He turns up on her doorstep. Bruised, battered and broken, but he doesn’t ask for help, or even meet her eyes.

She doesn’t hesitate to run madly for the first aid kit. It’s an instinctual thing, and somewhere deep inside she knows it probably will be for the rest of her life.

(Because I love you.)

She brings him inside, drags a chair forward and places it in front of the fire. He’s cold and wet, so she brings him a thick blanket and a steaming hut mug of coffee, just how he likes it.

He accepts it mutely, his jaw hardens and his teeth are clenched in pain, but he doesn’t utter a sound. He doesn’t drink the coffee.

(You’d like to think you know me, but you haven’t got a clue.)

He refuses to flinch when she touches the gash running horizontally from his left eyebrow right down to his lip. The fire’s ashes leap out to scald him, but the pain is welcome against this cold, numb feeling that encases him.

She uses the cloth efficiently, tenderly, and avoids the places that she knows hurt most. She doesn’t go near his chest.

(Why won’t you let me in?)

She mutters, almost inaudibly, and asks how it happened. She isn’t even surprised when she doesn’t get an answer; merely a blank stare.

He won’t tell her. He’ll never tell her, but not necessarily because he cares too much.

(Because you’ll never understand.)

He can’t bring himself to flail for an excuse, but he’s not going to give her the truth. So he looks at her instead.

She meets his eyes, but there’s nothing there. There are no answers, but there’s no questions, either.

(But when did it get so hard?)

She has a million things she’d like to say to him, but her mouth stays firmly shut. The wash cloth can’t scrub away the stains, no matter how much she tries.

He recognises the pain, barely. The scars are too thick for anything to penetrate, and he doesn’t know why she even bothers.

(You can’t hold on to something that’s not there.)

He doesn’t know why he came, either. But it hurts less with her there and maybe – just maybe – something will change.

She sighs and wipes his forehead gently. She thinks that it’s especially bad today, and wonders if one day he won’t come back.

(I care, even if you don’t.)

She likes to think that perhaps she’s wrong; jumping to conclusions needlessly. But she knows she isn’t, although he’ll never confirm it.

He knows she’s suspicious, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t think he cares about anything any more.

(You pretend I do, though.)

He can tell that the flow of blood from his head wound has stemmed, and his bruised ribs feel a bit less painful. But that’s not really what he came for.

She fusses over him, trying to create a false sense of security. Secretly though, she knows it’s only a matter of time before the wounds tear open.

(Denial has never hurt so much.)

She’s stepping on eggshells, and she can tell he notices, but she can’t help but pose the question. Even as she says it, the flicker of hope she feels in the pit of her stomach withers and dies, taking her spirit with it.

He still won’t reply, but there are images, playing through his head in the way that only the truest of nightmares can. He knows she doesn’t mean it, but he thinks it might be one strike too many.

(Reality is cruel, isn’t it?)

He gets up to leave. There’s no grateful words to leave her, or even a thankful look, because all he’s got to offer is the empty shell that is his body.

She’s been patient for so long, but now she thinks it might be one strike too many. She walks closer to him.

(I’m trying, so goddamn hard.)

She touches his face, trailing her fingers along the smaller bruises. She needs to make him see that it doesn’t have to be all scars and fights.

He stares back at her, but doesn’t move. He doesn’t make any attempt to reciprocate the gesture, either.

(I can’t try any more.)

His lifeless eyes pierce through her and he turns to leave. He’s halfway out the door before he pauses.

She’s known this day was coming for a while. She’s resigned to it, but she hasn’t accepted it.

(Can’t, or won’t?)

She loiters in the hall, praying for him to come back. But she’s also praying that he won’t.

He turns back to look at her, a sad smile on his face. It’s the only emotion he’s shown in the last three years, and he can tell she’s shocked by it.

(Both.)

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