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The afternoon sun filtered through the kitchen windows of the Noceda household, casting a warm, deceptive glow over a house currently balancing the weight of two different worlds. Life in the human realm during their unexpected exile was a strange mix of quiet domesticity and underlying anxiety, but today, the house felt almost normal.
"Hunter, mijo, I’m heading out to run a few errands," Camila called out, jingling her car keys as she adjusted her purse. "There is a casserole in the oven. Can you keep an eye on it for me? Just ten more minutes."
"On it, Mrs. Noceda- uh, Camila," Hunter stammered, pulling himself upright at the kitchen table. He offered a stiff, military-grade salute that he still couldn't quite shake.
"I shall accompany you on this quest into the belly of human commerce!" Gus shouted, practically teleporting to the front door with a pair of novelty plastic sunglasses resting upside down on his nose. Any trip into Gravesfield was a high-stakes research expedition for him, and he wasn't about to miss it.
Vee giggled, slipping her shoes on right behind him. She didn't care much about the local supermarket's cereal aisle, but any excuse to spend quiet, uninterrupted time with Camila was a win in her book.
With a chorus of goodbyes and the click of the front door, the house was suddenly enveloped in a rare, heavy silence.
Through the kitchen window, the backyard was a blur of vibrant, supernatural green. Willow was out there, practically in her element, happily gardening away. She was carefully coaxing life out of the stubborn Connecticut dirt, transforming Camila’s modest backyard plot into a blooming sanctuary of not only flowers but also fresh produce.
Upstairs, the house was just as peaceful, though far more cozy. In the safety of the bedroom, Luz and Amity were taking full advantage of the rare privacy. They were tangled together in a mess of blankets on the bed, sides pressed close, Amity's head resting comfortably on Luz's shoulder. In front of them sat a glowing, folding screen, a human realm device Luz had proudly introduced as a "laptop." Right now, it was playing a smuggled digital copy of a Good Witch Azura movie.
Downstairs, however, a battle was taking place. And Hunter was losing.
He sat back down at the kitchen table, his eyelids feeling like they were lined with lead. Spread out before him was a chaotic fortress of heavy, dust-covered volumes they had scavenged from the Gravesfield Public Library. There were books on local folklore, fringe theories on interdimensional travel, and old journals from the town's founding days.
He hadn't slept a wink. He had spent the entire night frantically scrawling notes, desperate to find even the smallest historical anomaly or magical loophole that could help them remake the portal door. They had to get back to the Demon Realm. They had to save their families. He had to be useful.
The rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the kitchen timer started to blur with the gentle hum of the refrigerator.
Just five more minutes, Hunter thought, his chin resting heavily in his hand as he stared at a blurred diagram of a doorway. I'll just rest my eyes until the timer goes off...
Somewhere beside the stack of books, Flapjack chirped softly in protest, feathers puffing as he hopped onto Hunter’s shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Hunter mumbled drowsily, barely coherent.
His eyes fluttered closed, just for a second. But the moment his lids shut, the sheer weight of his exhaustion dragged him under like an anchor. His head slumped onto an open page about colonial architecture, completely fast asleep, entirely oblivious to the now ringing alarm clock and the smell of burning food beginning to fill the room.
Soon, a sharp shrill beeping tore through the house.
Hunter jolted awake so violently that some of the books beneath him slid across the kitchen table with a loud crash. For one disoriented second he had no idea where he was. His galdorstone heart slammed against his ribs as the smoke alarm screamed overhead.
Smoke.
The kitchen smelled thick and bitter.
Hunter's eyes snapped toward the oven just as Luz came barreling down the stairs in mismatched socks.
Amity was right behind her, already yanking open windows with practiced efficiency while Willow rushed in through the back door from the garden, dirt still clinging to her gloves.
“Oh crud, the casserole!” Luz coughed, grabbing an oven mitt from the counter.
“I got it!” Amity called.
The oven door swung open, releasing an ugly cloud of black smoke. Luz and Amity both recoiled, waving the haze away while Willow stood beneath the smoke detector, frantically fanning a dish towel at it.
“Why is it always so loud?!” Willow complained over the piercing alarm.
Hunter stared.
The ruined casserole sat blackened in the pan, edges charred beyond recognition.
And suddenly, horrifyingly, fully awake.
No.
No no no no-
“I-” His voice caught sharply in his throat.
He was on his feet before he realized he'd moved, chair scraping violently against the floor. His pulse roared in his ears.
“I fell asleep.”
Nobody answered immediately, too busy fighting the smoke.
But Hunter’s mind was already spiraling far ahead of them.
You idiot. Camila gave you one task. One easy human task. You couldn't even do that right.
His breathing turned shallow.
The smoke alarm kept screaming.
The oven had been left unattended. The whole kitchen could have caught fire. The house could have burned down.
And it would have all been his fault.
His stomach twisted violently.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, words tumbling over themselves. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- I was just resting for a second and I-”
“Hunter, hey, it’s okay,” Luz said quickly.
But he barely heard her. Instead, his chest tightened painfully.
Belos’s voice slithered through the back of his mind with perfect cruelty.
Careless. Undisciplined. Unreliable.
Hunter pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead.
“I ruined dinner,” he whispered hoarsely. “Mrs. Noceda trusted me and I ruined it.”
“Hunter.” Amity shut the oven firmly and crossed the kitchen toward him. “The casserole is the only casualty here.”
“But it could’ve been worse!”
His voice cracked hard enough that everyone froze.
Hunter’s breaths suddenly came too fast, too thin. The room felt wrong, too hot, too small, too loud. His hands had started shaking without him noticing.
“I could’ve hurt somebody,” he said, the words rushing now. “I wasn’t paying attention, I wasn’t useful, I just- I fell asleep when I was supposed to be helping and now-”
“Hunter,” Willow said gently.
He didn’t even seem to register her voice.
A sudden flutter of red wings cut through the haze of smoke as Flapjack landed clumsily against Hunter’s chest, chirping sharply in alarm.
Hunter startled slightly, one shaking hand instinctively coming up to steady the little palisman against his sweater.
“I can’t-” Hunter sucked in another shallow breath. “I can’t mess things up like this, I can’t-”
Willow stepped directly in front of him.
“Hunter. Look at me.”
His eyes darted up to hers, wide and panicked.
Willow slowly raised one hand between them, holding up four fingers.
“Breathe with me, okay?” she said softly. “In for four.”
She folded one finger down at a time.
Hunter tried to follow, though the first inhale stuttered badly in his chest.
“Hold for four.”
Another finger folded.
Luz moved beside him quietly now, no sudden movements, while Amity finally managed to silence the smoke detector.
The kitchen dropped into deafening silence.
“Out for four,” Willow continued.
Hunter exhaled shakily.
Willow kept counting patiently on her fingers, voice steady and grounded while the others stayed close without crowding him.
Gradually, painfully slowly, the tight pressure crushing his ribs began to loosen.
His breathing still trembled, but at least it had slowed enough for him to get a proper breath in.
“There you go,” Willow murmured.
Hunter swallowed hard, staring down at the floorboards.
The embarrassment settled in almost immediately afterward, hot and miserable.
Great. Now everyone had seen that.
Seen him panic over burnt food like a complete mess.
His hands curled tightly into the sleeves of his yellow sweater.
“…Sorry,” he muttered weakly.
Luz frowned. “For what?”
Hunter gave a helpless gesture toward the oven, like the answer should’ve been obvious.
Amity leaned against the counter, arms crossed gently rather than defensively. “Hunter, you were exhausted.”
“When was the last time you even slept?” Luz added. “Honestly, I’m more concerned you somehow managed to read colonial history voluntarily.”
A tiny, unwilling sound escaped Willow. Half snort, half laugh.
Hunter’s face burned hotter.
“But Mrs. Noceda asked me to do one thing,” he insisted quietly. “And I still messed it up.”
Willow shook her head. “You made a mistake. That’s different.”
“It happens,” Amity said. “Trust me. Luz once microwaved aluminum foil because she thought it would make the food cook faster.”
“In my defense,” Luz said solemnly, “it did make something happen faster.”
Despite himself, Hunter let out a strained breath that almost resembled a laugh.
Almost.
The tension in the room softened immediately.
Willow reached over and squeezed his shoulder once.
“The house is okay,” she reminded him gently. “We’re okay. And Camila is not gonna hate you over one burnt casserole.”
Hunter looked unconvinced, but his breathing had finally steadied.
Outside, the late afternoon sun still poured warmly through the kitchen windows, illuminating the smoky haze lingering in the air like drifting fog.
The sound of the front door opening cut through the quiet.
“We return victorious from the Human Realm shops!” Gus announced dramatically before immediately stopping short. “...Why does it smell like a dragon lost a fight in here?”
Vee stepped in behind him carrying grocery bags, nose wrinkling.
Camila blinked as she entered the kitchen, taking in the open windows, the faint haze still lingering in the air, and the blackened casserole sitting abandoned on the stove.
“What happened?”
The room went awkwardly still.
Hunter’s stomach dropped all over again.
Before anyone else could answer, he stepped forward stiffly.
“It was my fault.”
Luz opened her mouth. “Hunter-”
“No.” His voice came out tight. Controlled in the way it always did when he was trying very hard not to fall apart again. “Mrs. Noceda, you asked me to watch the casserole and I failed to do so. I fell asleep while on duty.”
Camila’s expression softened immediately at the wording alone.
Hunter kept going anyway, each sentence sounding more rehearsed than the last, like he was delivering a report.
“The food burned because I was negligent. The smoke alarm activated. The others had to handle the situation because I was not paying attention.” He swallowed. “The fault is entirely mine.”
“Hunter,” Camila said gently, “it’s okay-”
“No, it isn’t.”
The sharpness in his voice startled even him.
Hunter lowered his head quickly.
“I wasted food. I endangered the house. I disobeyed instructions.” His hands curled tightly at his sides. “You trusted me with a simple task and I proved I can’t be relied upon.”
Silence settled heavily over the kitchen.
Luz looked distressed.
Willow looked worried.
And Camila-
Camila looked heartbroken.
Hunter took one shaky breath before abruptly dropping to his knees. He knelt rigidly on the kitchen floor, head bowed.
“I accept full responsibility,” he said quickly, voice unsteady despite how formal the words sounded. “I will accept any punishment you see fit.”
The kitchen went dead silent.
Camila stared at him in stunned disbelief.
Hunter kept his gaze fixed downward. It felt safer that way.
Flapjack fluttered anxiously onto his shoulder, feathers sleeked tight against his tiny body, letting out a distressed trill.
But to Hunter, pain made sense. Consequences made sense.
Punishment prevented mistakes from happening again.
That was how people learned to be useful.
Belos had punished him for less than this. Much less. So why wouldn’t he be punished now?
Burning dinner. Endangering everyone. Wasting supplies during a time when they were already using up so much of Mrs. Noceda's resources?
The thought of walking away from that without consequences felt almost impossible to comprehend.
“I understand if you don’t trust me anymore,” Hunter continued quietly. “But I can improve. I’ll do better next time.”
Nobody spoke.
Suddenly Camila saw it all with painful clarity.
The apologizing before anyone had even raised their voice. The panic. The exhaustion.
The way he spoke about himself like a defective employee instead of a child.
And now this.
Kneeling on her kitchen floor waiting to be punished over a burnt casserole.
Dios mío. This poor boy.
Camila slowly set the grocery bags down on the counter before kneeling in front of him.
Hunter immediately tensed.
“Honey,” she said softly, carefully, “look at me.”
Slowly, uncertainly, Hunter raised his head.
There was no anger on her face. No disappointment. Just deep sadness.
“I am not going to punish you.”
Hunter blinked at her like he hadn’t understood the sentence.
Camila’s chest ached.
“Mistakes happen,” she continued gently. “You were exhausted. You fell asleep. That does not make you bad or dangerous.”
Hunter stared at her in open confusion.
“But I ruined dinner,” he said weakly.
“So?” Camila replied.
Hunter looked even more confused somehow.
“We’ll order pizza.”
Behind them, Gus perked up instantly. “Oooh, can we get the stuffed crust one this time-”
Amity elbowed him sharply.
“OW.”
Camila didn’t take her eyes off Hunter.
“You do not deserve to be hurt because you made a mistake,” she said firmly now. “That is not how this family works.”
Family.
The word hit Hunter so hard his throat tightened.
Camila reached out slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away, before gently taking one of his trembling hands.
“Come on,” she said softly. “Up you go.”
Hunter let her help him stand, though he looked dazed the entire time, like his brain still couldn’t quite process what was happening.
“You’re... not mad?” he asked quietly.
Camila gave him a small, incredulous smile.
“I’m upset you’ve apparently been taught to expect punishment for every little thing,” she admitted. “But no, mijo. I’m not mad about the casserole.”
Hunter stood there silently, shoulders tense beneath the oversized yellow sweater.
Like he was still waiting for the real reaction to happen.
Camila resisted the urge to cry.
Instead, she squeezed his hand once before turning toward the others.
“Okay,” she announced gently, deliberately shifting the mood. “Who wants pizza?”
Much later that night, the Noceda house had finally gone quiet.
Gus was asleep on the couch beside Hunter’s sleeping bag, completely sprawled out beneath a blanket with one arm dangling dramatically toward the floor.
A soft snore escaped him.
Hunter stared at the ceiling.
Awake.
Still awake.
His mind kept replaying the afternoon in miserable, looping detail.
The smoke. The panic. Kneeling on the kitchen floor.
Then, Camila saying she wouldn’t punish him.
That part still felt... wrong somehow.
Not wrong morally, exactly. Just incomplete.
Like a step had been skipped.
Mistake. Consequence. Correction.
That was how things worked. That was how people improved.
Hunter slowly sat up in his sleeping bag, careful not to wake Flapjack who was sleeping peacefully on Hunter’s pillow or Gus who was in a deep sleep on the sofa beside him.
Hunter hesitated.
Then, with growing certainty, he climbed quietly to his feet.
Camila wouldn’t punish him.
Fine.
He would handle it himself.
Honestly, it was probably better this way. More efficient. Private.
No awkwardness for everyone else.
The basement storage closet smelled faintly like dust, fabric, and old cardboard. Hunter pulled open the narrow walk-in door and paused.
The entire closet was packed wall-to-wall with cosplay supplies.
Plastic storage bins overflowed with carefully folded costumes, prop weapons, wigs balanced on foam heads, and racks of old convention badges hanging from hooks. A faded poster for Cosmic Frontier had been taped crookedly to the back wall years ago.
Hunter stared for a moment in complete awe beneath the weak pull-chain light overhead.
Then he spotted the belt hanging from a nearby shelf hook.
Plain brown leather. That would work.
Normally Belos used a switch on him for corrective measures, but Hunter had a feeling that Camila wasn't someone who owned such a thing and decidedly settled on the belt.
Hunter took it carefully and headed upstairs so as to not disturb Gus.
The living room remained dark and quiet except for the television glow flickering across the walls after no one had remembered to turn it off once the movie had finished.
Hunter sat cautiously on the couch and folded the belt in half with practiced precision.
The movement came automatically.
Fold evenly. Grip firmly. No hesitation.
His stomach twisted.
Belos had always counted.
The memory surfaced so clearly it made Hunter’s shoulders tense.
Not angry counting, but measured counting.
Controlled.
Like punishment was simply another lesson.
Hunter first removed the watermelon pajama pants Mrs. Noceda had been so kind to let him borrow and instead revealed the bare skin of his thighs.
He swallowed hard and positioned the belt across his lap.
This wasn’t self-indulgence. This wasn’t losing control.
This was correction.
Necessary correction.
“One,” he whispered automatically.
He drew in a steadying breath before bringing the belt down sharply against his leg.
The impact stung, but not enough.
Hunter frowned immediately.
Too weak.
He adjusted his grip.
Again.
"Two."
The second strike landed harder.
Still wrong.
Not even close.
Frustration prickled under his skin.
He was doing this incorrectly somehow.
Belos had never hesitated.
Hunter tightened his jaw and tried again, forcing more force behind the motion this time.
“Three.”
The sound of the belt cracking rang through the house.
Still not hard enough.
Hunter stared at the belt in growing irritation.
Why was this so difficult?
He knew how punishment worked. He’d spent years understanding exactly how it worked.
Pain was supposed to reinforce obedience.
Mistakes had consequences.
Consequences prevented future failures.
Simple.
So why couldn’t he do it properly?
Hunter lifted the belt again, jaw tense.
“Four.”
The strike landed unevenly, more awkward than painful.
His grip faltered afterward.
Annoyance surged hot in his chest.
No. Too slow. Too careful.
Belos would have called this pathetic.
Hunter’s breathing sharpened slightly as he repositioned the belt again and again, becoming increasingly frustrated with every failed attempt to recreate the cold precision he remembered.
But the harder he tried to force himself to do it correctly, the more unnatural it felt.
His arm hesitated at the last second every time like some stubborn part of him refused to follow through fully.
Hunter gritted his teeth hard enough for his jaw to ache.
Why couldn’t he even punish himself right?
Hunter lowered the belt slowly.
His leg stung faintly, but the sensation already felt dull and insufficient.
Wrong.
The correction wasn’t working.
His breathing sharpened with frustration.
There had to be another way.
Quietly, Hunter set the belt aside, slid the watermelon pajama pants back on, and stood from the couch. Then, he crossed the dark living room toward the front door.
His boots sat neatly beside the shoe rack.
Hunter crouched and reached into the inside lining of the right boot, fingers finding the familiar shape immediately.
The knife slid free with practiced ease.
Even in the dim television glow, the blade gleamed clean silver.
Hunter had maintained it meticulously ever since purchasing it from a traveling vendor during his years as the Golden Guard. Back then it had been a point of pride, useful, dependable, always sharpened properly, always cared for.
Hunter turned the knife carefully in his hands.
This would work better.
More precise. More effective.
He sat back down on the couch and unfolded the blade with a soft metallic click.
Hunter rolled up the sleeve of the borrowed sweater just enough to expose the inside of his forearm.
His movements remained methodical. Detached.
This still did not feel like losing control.
It felt like fixing a mistake. Like restoring balance.
He pressed the blade lightly against his skin, hesitating only a second before drawing it across in a short line.
Sharp pain bloomed instantly.
Hunter exhaled shakily.
Better.
Not enough yet, but closer.
He stared at the thin red line appearing against pale skin.
Then he moved to make another cut, deeper this time. The wound inflicted flashed white at first before sluggishly filling with blood.
Hunter’s hand trembled faintly as he repositioned the blade again, frustration and desperation beginning to blur together beneath the surface now.
He made another cut, then another, and another. Each seemed to be deeper than the last.
Why wouldn’t the guilt go away? Why didn’t he feel corrected yet?
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Hunter froze.
He turned sharply to find Camila standing in the hallway entrance wearing a faded oversized T-shirt and sweatpants, her face pale with horror.
For one awful second neither of them moved.
Her eyes dropped immediately to the knife in his hand.
Then to the blood.
Hunter’s stomach plummeted.
He scrambled to his feet so quickly he nearly dropped the knife entirely.
“I can explain-”
“Hunter.” Camila’s voice broke.
That terrified him more than yelling would have.
Hunter gripped the knife tighter automatically, panic flooding through him.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I know you said not to but I needed to fix it, I needed to make up for what I did-”
“Oh mijo.”
Camila looked devastated.
Not angry. Not furious.
Devastated.
Hunter couldn’t understand it.
“You burned dinner,” Camila said softly, sounding like she physically could not comprehend what she was seeing. “And you thought this was what you deserved?”
Hunter’s throat tightened.
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately. Honestly.
Of course yes.
“I endangered everyone,” he said shakily. “I wasted your food and your money and your resources and I- I was careless and lazy and-”
“No.” Camila took a careful step closer. “No, honey.”
Hunter’s breathing started speeding up again.
“You don’t understand,” he insisted desperately. “Punishment is supposed to stop it from happening again. If I just get away with things then I’ll keep making mistakes and-”
“You are not ‘getting away’ with anything!”
Her voice cracked hard enough that Hunter flinched instinctively.
Camila immediately looked horrified at herself for raising it.
“Oh, mijo...” she whispered.
Hunter stood frozen in place, knife still trembling weakly in his hand.
“I can take it,” he said quietly, almost pleading now. “Really. I can. I just need to do it properly, since you won't...”
Camila looked like her heart had just shattered in front of him.
“No one should have taught you that being hurt or hurting yourself makes you good,” she said, tears gathering in her eyes. “No child should believe that.”
Child.
The word struck him strangely every time.
Hunter shook his head quickly. “But if there’s no punishment then how do I learn?”
Camila swallowed hard.
“You learn because someone teaches you,” she said softly. “Because someone helps you. Not because they hurt you.”
Hunter stared at her blankly.
That idea sounded so foreign it barely even made sense.
His grip weakened slightly around the knife.
Camila slowly held out her hand toward him.
Not demanding, just offering.
“You never should have been hurt for making mistakes,” she said gently. “Ever.”
Hunter looked down at the knife.
He expected disgust. Anger. Shock.
Instead Camila only looked heartbroken, like someone had handed her proof of something terrible she already suspected.
His chest twisted painfully.
Camila kept her hand extended patiently.
After a long moment, Hunter finally loosened his grip on the knife enough for her to carefully take it from him.
Even then, he looked tense. Braced.
Waiting.
Camila folded the blade closed with trembling fingers and set it far out of reach on the kitchen counter.
Then she turned back to him immediately.
“Can I see your arm, mijo?”
Hunter instinctively pulled it closer to his chest.
“It’s fine,” he said quickly. “They’re shallow. I can take care of it myself.”
Camila’s heart cracked all over again.
Hunter swallowed hard. “You don’t have to bother with it,” he murmured. “I know how to clean cuts.”
Camila believed him instantly.
That hurt too.
Still, she kept her voice calm and gentle. “I know you do, honey. But you shouldn’t have to.”
Hunter’s shoulders tightened.
For a second, Camila thought he might refuse again.
Then his gaze dropped toward the floor.
“…Okay,” he said quietly.
Not because he wanted comfort, and certainly not because he thought he deserved it.
But because she had asked. Because disobeying her further felt unbearable.
Camila guided him carefully into the kitchen and sat him down at the table while she retrieved the first aid kit from the cabinet in the washroom.
Hunter sat perfectly still the entire time.
Rigid posture. Hands folded tightly in his lap. Like he was preparing for discipline instead of kindness.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly as Camila wet a cloth with warm water. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“Oh, Hunter…”
“And I probably ruined the couch too because there was blood and-”
“Mijo.” Camila knelt beside his chair gently. “You do not need to apologize for being hurt.”
Hunter looked deeply unconvinced.
Still, he let her take his arm.
Camila cleaned the cuts carefully, moving slowly enough that he would see every motion coming. Hunter barely reacted to the sting.
That alone made her chest ache.
He was too used to pain. Far too used to it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again while she dabbed antiseptic across one of the cuts.
Camila looked up at him softly. “Honey, you said that five times in the last minute.”
Hunter immediately looked guilty for that too.
“Sorry.”
Despite everything, a tiny, watery laugh escaped Camila.
Hunter startled at the sound like he hadn’t expected laughter to exist in a moment like this.
“It’s okay,” she assured him gently. “You don’t have to keep apologizing.”
Camila wrapped the bandages carefully around his forearm with the same tenderness she would have used for Luz after a scraped knee.
No anger. No lectures. Just care.
Hunter stared down at her hands in silence.
Then suddenly his breathing hitched.
Camila looked up immediately.
Hunter had gone very still.
His face was twisted in visible confusion, like he didn’t understand what was happening to him until tears abruptly spilled down his cheeks.
He jerked his head away instantly, horrified.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I don’t know why I’m-”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Camila reached for him immediately.
That only seemed to make it worse.
Hunter pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eyes, shoulders trembling now.
No one had ever reacted like this before.
Not to injuries. Not to mistakes. Not to him.
The gentleness hurt worse than the blade had.
“I’m okay,” he insisted shakily, voice cracking apart. “I’m fine, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make this into a whole thing-”
“You didn’t,” Camila said softly.
She rested a careful hand against the side of his head, thumb brushing lightly through his hair.
“You are allowed to need help.”
That broke whatever fragile composure Hunter still had left.
A quiet sob escaped him before he could stop it.
Camila immediately pulled him gently against her shoulder.
Hunter stiffened in surprise for half a second before slowly, hesitantly collapsing against her like his body had simply run out of strength to stay upright.
Camila held him through it without a trace of impatience.
She just let him cry.
Eventually, after the tears quieted into exhausted sniffles and his injuries were all carefully bandaged, Camila guided him slowly back downstairs.
Gus was still dead asleep on the couch.
“Alright,” she whispered gently, helping him settle back into his sleeping bag.
Hunter curled instinctively onto his side, exhausted beyond words now.
Camila pulled the blanket up around his shoulders before pressing a soft kiss against his forehead.
Hunter froze slightly at the gesture.
Then, from his position curled up on Hunter's pillow, a sleepy red cardinal fluttered awake.
Flapjack blinked blearily.
My boy okay? he chirped softly.
Hunter’s expression crumpled all over again at the concern in the little palisman’s voice.
“…I’m fine,” he whispered.
Flapjack immediately tucked himself into the crook of Hunter’s neck with a quiet trill.
Camila sat beside the sleeping bag and gently carded her fingers through Hunter’s hair.
At first, Hunter still seemed tense.
Waiting. Expecting something.
But little by little, the tension began to melt out of him beneath the repetitive, soothing motion of her hand.
His breathing slowed. His eyelids drooped heavily.
And for the first time in a very long while, Hunter fell asleep feeling cared for instead of like he deserved to hurt.