Chapter Text
Jack unlocks the door with his shoulder. The key sticks, metal scraping against metal. He shoves harder until the latch gives. Rust flakes scatter onto the mat. The sound echoes through the old apartment.
He doesn’t turn on the lights. Street glow bleeds through the blinds, striping the floor in uneven bars. He drops his bag beside the couch and stands there, half‑ready to move, half‑frozen himself.
The air bites. The heating unit clicks but doesn’t catch. He rubs his arm through the sleeve of his jacket and down to his thigh, where the prosthesis meets skin. He catches himself rubbing at the faint white lines hidden under his scrubs, just above the socket. Its edge presses against the scarred tissue left from the amputation—old pain layered over older memories. He flexes his hands, muscles fighting each other, and winces, feeling farther and farther away each time.
He opens the fridge, stares at the shelves, closes it again. The hum fills the silence. He presses his palm against the counter, waiting for the tremor to pass. His rigid shoulders hunch inward, breath shallow despite himself.
The case had been brutal — a child, too quiet, too still. He’d done everything right, said everything right, but the image wouldn’t leave him. It followed him home, lodged behind his ribs, heavy as frost.
He moves through the apartment, checking for damage. Shoes off. Jacket over the chair. He runs a hand through his hair, catches the tremor again, and clenches his quadriceps until it stops. The prosthesis creaks faintly, the sound sharp in the quiet.
Old habits die hard.
The hoodie waits on the armrest—soft gray, frayed at the cuffs, faintly carrying Robby’s scent. He picks it up without thinking, thumb tracing the seam. The fabric gives under his grip, pliant, familiar. He was supposed to give it back at hand‑off. He was home now; he had sweat sets of his own to warm up in.
He sits on the floor. The tile bites his leg. He leans forward, elbow on his knee, and exhales until his breath shakes—the cold seeps through the prosthesis, numbing the skin but leaving the phantom pain alive.
A sound slips out — low, steady, almost a hum. He doesn’t notice it at first. It’s just something his body does; he’s noticed– a rhythm to fill the space.
Then he hears it.
He stops. The silence rushes back in, making room for looming anxiety and darkness to spread with it.
He stares at the hoodie, disgust curling in his gut. The softness feels wrong in his hands. He’s supposed to be stronger than this. He shouldn’t want this.
’But I do…’
The thought lands heavy, shame and longing tangled together. The cold gnaws deeper, and the throbbing in his leg sharpens.
He presses the sleeve against the joint, just for the heat, just for relief. The cedar‑scented fabric holds heat better than he expects, the faint trace of Robby’s detergent grounding him. The comforting warmth spreads slowly, seeping through the fabric and into the ache beneath, loosening the tension in his shoulders. It settles around him like a memory of touch, soft and steady. The cold retreats inch by inch, replaced by something gentler, something that feels like security. The hum slips out again, a quiet lullaby from days past– almost hidden under his breath.
The warmth settles deeper, and the world narrows to small things—the weight of the hoodie, the rhythm of his breath, the soft drag of fabric against scarred skin. The hum steadies, low and even. His thoughts blur at the edges; everything sharp slips out of focus. He traces the seam with his thumb, fascinated by the texture, the way it gives under pressure. Slow mornings cuddled up to Robby resurfaced; a soft smile ghosted his lips. ’Safe comfy…’.
The chill knifes through the room, sudden and merciless. Uninsulated walls and worn-down caulking around the window panes do nothing to prevent the winter chill from wisping in, startling him out of his fragile calm. The cold hits like a slap, sharp and real. The warmth vanishes in an instant. His breath catches; the hum dies mid‑note.
He folds the hoodie, too carefully, and sets it aside.
He stands, jaw locked, shoulders squared. The apartment looks smaller now, the air heavier. He tells himself to shower, to eat, to do something that proves he’s still functional.
He doesn’t.
The clock ticks. The pipes groan. He presses his palms against the counter and waits for the shaking to stop.
When it does, he turns off the light and walks to the bedroom. The hoodie stays on the chair, a quiet accusation.
He lies down, eyes open, the hum still caught somewhere in his throat. ’Maybe if I just…’
The cold creeps up his arm again, sharp and invasive, crawling through the seams of the blanket like it’s searching for him. The air feels thinner, meaner. He pulls the blanket tighter, jaw clenched, muscles locking against the tremor.
’No.’
The word lands like a blow. He doesn’t let the distressed sound escape his lips. The silence presses back, heavy and unrelenting. The pain sits inside him, coiled and alive, morphing into pure need—something wordless, something small.
He listens to the quiet until it turns cruel. The cold aches surround him, pressing close, filling every hollow space until it feels like the walls themselves are breathing. The warmth is gone, but the memory of it lingers—ghostlike, almost tender—until everything blurs into something new; something that almost feels held.