Chapter Five
Jack
I balance the tray carefully, steam curling up from the bowl of chicken broth. I've kept it simple—just broth, buttered bread, a small dish of sliced fruit. Light. Easy. Something that might coax strength back into a body that looks far too breakable.
Upstairs, the second floor feels hushed. The shower has gone quiet.
I knock once. Then again. No answer.
"Ciel?" I call softly.
Still nothing.
The doctor warned me—fragile, exhausted, drifting in and out. Maybe he's sleeping. I shift the tray, nudge the door open with my elbow, and step inside.
"Hey, I brought some—"
And stop.
My brain blue-screens.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed. Damp red hair clings to his cheek, still wet from the shower. His skin, pale and bruised, gleams faintly under the soft light.
The robe I left for him? Folded neatly beside him. Untouched.
He's bare. Completely bare. Naked.
Like it's the most normal thing in the world.
I almost drop the tray. Somehow manage to set it on the dresser instead, as though it's a live grenade. My mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again.
"Soup's here," I mumble, pivoting toward the door so fast I nearly slam into it. "I'll just—be outside. If you need me."
Hand on the knob. Nearly free.
Then—
"Wait."
Soft. Fragile. But it roots me to the spot.
I turn, slowly.
He's still perched on the bed, arms curled tight around his rounded belly. His eyes are wide, glistening, the kind that make your chest hurt if you look too long.
And suddenly, when I really look, the panic drains into something colder.
He's so small. Not in height, but in the way someone shrinks after too many blows. Collarbones jutting sharp. Bruises blooming like sick flowers along his ribs, thighs, shoulders. His spine hunched as though he's already bracing for pain.
"Are you not going to…?" he whispers. His gaze flicks to the bed, then back to me. He doesn't even finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.
My stomach twists with disgust—not at him. At them. At whatever hell taught him that this is normal.
"What?" My voice comes out too sharp. He flinches. I force myself to soften. "No. God, no."
His lashes flutter. His voice is even smaller. "But… you asked me to take a shower."
The confusion in his tone makes my throat ache. He's waiting for the trap. Like my kindness has barbs hidden underneath.
I drag a hand down my face, force the heat in my chest to cool.
"Yeah," I say, quieter now. "Because you were unconscious for three days. You were caked in dirt and sweat and blood. I thought you'd feel better clean. That's all."
He stares at me like I've spoken a foreign language.
So I try again. Softer. Slower.
"Ciel… I'm not expecting anything from you. Nothing. All I want is for you to rest. To heal."
His bottom lip trembles.
He looks away, lashes dipping, eyes shining with tears he's trying to swallow back. His voice is a ghost.
"I understand."
But it sounds like resignation, not relief. Like he's trying to make peace with not being wanted—even in this.
And then his stomach grumbles, loud in the quiet room.
The sound is loud. Ridiculous. His stomach growls like a dying engine.
We both freeze.
The silence after is unbearable. Neither of us laughs.
He folds in on himself, shoulders hunching as though even hunger is a betrayal.
I clear my throat, searching for something steady to hold between us.
"Let me grab a shirt for you," I murmur, careful not to startle him again. "And then you can eat. Deal?"
His gaze flicks up. After a long pause, he nods. Once.
Good enough.