Morning came slowly.
The city was still damp from yesterday's drizzle, mist curling off the sidewalks like smoke from an unseen fire. The air smelled faintly of wet asphalt and decay — familiar and unwelcome. I pushed my jacket tighter and started the walk to the precinct, hands shoved deep in my pockets.
Even from the street, I could sense the unease settling over the office. The usual hum of activity was there, but quieter, almost tentative. People moved with purpose, but there was tension in the space between steps, a cautiousness in their gestures.
I shrugged off the feeling, assuming it was just the weather pressing down, until I reached Alex's desk.
Empty.
My chest tightened.
I hesitated, then checked my watch. Not again..
I exhaled, trying to keep calm. Maybe he was late. Maybe he was on some personal errand. But still, the pit in my stomach refused to ease.
By 8:30 a.m., the precinct was alive with activity. Phones rang, keys clattered on desks, detectives barked orders, and the chief's office door remained firmly closed.
I scanned the room, instinctively seeking Alex. He finally appeared near the front, walking quietly but deliberately through the room, eyes downcast.
Something was different.
He moved slower than usual, his shoulders slightly hunched, hands tucked in his pockets. There was an odd stiffness to his gait, a subtle hesitation I'd never seen before. His white hair was tied back as always, but strands fell loosely across his face, hiding the dark red eyes that normally seemed impossible to miss.
I frowned. "Alex," I called softly.
He looked up, expression neutral. "Morning."
It wasn't his usual calm acknowledgment. There was a flicker in his eyes — sharp, fleeting, almost painful.
I swallowed uneasily and forced a nod. "Morning."
The day began as usual — case files, witness interviews, lab reports, and endless paperwork. But something about Alex today was… off. Small things I hadn't noticed before.
At first, I chalked it up to stress. The Smileball Killer was unpredictable. Every case was a knife-edge, and Alex, quiet and observant as he was, had always carried more than his share of the burden.
But by mid-morning, the unease had grown into something sharper, more tangible.
We were in the break room — the usual grimy tile, buzzing fluorescent lights, stale coffee — when it became impossible to ignore.
Harris and another detective, Jensen, were leaning against the counter, murmuring about yesterday's lab results. I grabbed a cup of coffee and stood next to Alex, trying to make small talk, mostly to break the tension.
"So, you hear anything from the lab about the latex paint?" I asked.
Alex sipped his coffee without looking at me. "Still ordinary," he muttered.
I frowned. "That's… useless."
"Not necessarily," Harris interjected, leaning into the conversation with that permanent smirk. "Could just mean he's sloppy this time. Or maybe we're barking up the wrong tree entirely. Again."
I shot him a look that could've peeled paint. "Don't assume you know more than the rest of us."
He laughed — a short, sharp bark. "I like it when you get feisty, Leo. Makes it interesting."
I ignored him, turning back to Alex. That's when I noticed it — the bandages around his hands.
At first, I thought it was from the cut he'd gotten two weeks ago during a field investigation. He usually changed them promptly, keeping them clean. But today, the wrapping looked… damp, fraying at the edges.
I leaned slightly closer, careful not to draw attention. A dark stain seeped through the bandage. Fresh blood.
"Alex," I said quietly, my voice barely audible.
He looked up, eyes meeting mine, and for a fraction of a second — just a flicker — his usual calm broke.
"Nothing," he said quickly, almost too quickly. "It's fine."
But it wasn't fine. Not by a long shot.
The rest of the morning blurred into a haze of interviews and paperwork. I couldn't focus. Every time Alex moved, I noticed that tiny limp in his wrist, the slight hesitation in his fingers, the way he flexed them almost compulsively.
Even during witness interviews, his notebook and pen stayed untouched. Normally, he'd be jotting observations, noting inconsistencies, everything. Today, he barely scribbled a line.
By lunch, I couldn't ignore it anymore.
I pulled him aside in the hallway. "Alex, your hands — you're bleeding. Why didn't you tell me?"
He stiffened. "It's nothing. I caught it on the corner of the counter this morning. I'll clean it later."
"You'll clean it later?" I said incredulously. "You're bleeding through the bandages!"
He averted his eyes. "I said it's fine. Really."
I clenched my jaw. "Alex. I've known you for twenty-eight years. I know when you're lying to me. Now, what's really going on?"
His silence was heavy. Finally, he exhaled, just slightly. "It's nothing," he repeated. But the tone was hollow, strained.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, frustration mounting. "Nothing keeps bleeding through like this. Not by accident."
He looked down, tight-lipped. "I'll be fine."
I wanted to push further, to pull the bandages off myself and fix it. But the office was still buzzing with people, and drawing attention would only cause questions. And I needed answers privately.
The afternoon dragged on. Every time I tried to concentrate on the case — the lab reports, the warehouse leads, the potential connections between the victims — my thoughts kept returning to Alex's hands.
By 3:30, the team was back in the bullpen, cross-referencing lab data with previous crime scenes. I hovered near Alex, pretending to look at a map. He was scribbling notes, but his movements were jerky, unpracticed — like he hadn't touched a pen in months.
I finally leaned closer. "Alex, tell me you didn't reopen your old wounds," I murmured.
He froze, pen mid-air. Eyes wide, a flicker of panic. "Leo… it's not…"
"Don't lie," I said sharply. "Your hands — they're bandaged, yes. But you're bleeding again. You're hiding it. Why?"
He swallowed, glanced around quickly, and finally muttered, "I'll manage. I always do."
"You always do?" I pressed. "You're human, Alex. You're not invincible."
He looked away, jaw tight. "I don't want you worrying."
"That's not your decision!" I snapped, my voice echoing in the now-silent bullpen.
People turned to watch. Harris smirked. Jensen raised an eyebrow.
Alex, calm as ever, put his pen down. "Leo…"
But I wasn't done. I was too tired. Too anxious. Too aware of how fragile everything had started to feel.
"You're not fine! You've been pushing yourself, hiding things from me, and you think I won't notice?" I leaned closer, voice low. "You're bleeding, Alex. And it's not just physical. Something's wrong. I can see it."
He didn't respond at first. Then, quietly, he said, "I just… can't deal with this case the way I normally do. Not today."
I softened slightly, realizing the truth of it. Alex had always been the steady one — observant, unflinching, calculating. If he was faltering, that meant something about this case, about the killer, had gotten under his skin in a way nothing had before.
I touched his shoulder lightly. "Then let me help. We're in this together, Alex. Always."
His hand twitched in response, the barest flicker of comfort. He didn't look at me, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
By late afternoon, the team had wrapped up witness calls and lab reports. Nothing new had come from the day's work — no leads, no breakthroughs.
But my attention remained on Alex. His hands were rebandaged — clean, but still pale and trembling beneath the cloth. The controlled, silent facade was cracking, and I could see it now, like ice under pressure.
I didn't say anything more. I didn't need to. We packed up quietly, ready to leave the office.
Alex walked beside me, shoulders stiff, eyes forward. I was scared.
Not of the killer. Not of the case.
Of losing the one person who kept me steady — the only person I could trust when the world kept spinning into chaos.
The drive home was quiet. The city lights reflected on the wet streets, the night pressing in around us.
The rain had stopped when we left the precinct, but the night was thick with mist, shadows crawling across the streets.
I drove in silence, glancing at Alex occasionally. He sat stiffly beside me, hands hidden under the jacket sleeve, posture tight. The bandages were fresh, clean, but the tremor in his fingers betrayed the truth: he wasn't fine.
I wanted to ask again, to push, but the words felt heavy in my mouth. Sometimes silence says more than any confrontation.
By the time we reached his house at the edge of the woods, the fog had turned into a soft haze that blurred the trees into ghostly shapes. He stopped at the driveway, eyes on the dark forest beyond.
"You don't have to go in," I said quietly.
He didn't reply. Just stepped inside, leaving the door open for me.
I followed.
The house smelled of damp wood, faint smoke, and something else — the faintly sweet, unidentifiable scent Alex always seemed to carry. Inside, the soft glow of a single lamp lit the living room. Everything was as I remembered it: spotless, arranged with quiet precision, almost like a museum.
But tonight it didn't feel like home. It felt like a shelter — fragile, protective, and filled with unspoken tension.
Alex moved to the kitchen without a word. I stayed in the doorway, watching. He knelt, carefully removing his shoes, then went to the counter. His hands were shaking slightly under the bandages.
"Sit," I said softly, gesturing to the small couch.
He hesitated. "I don't need—"
"Yes, you do," I interrupted, stepping closer. "Your hands. You're bleeding through the bandages again. And I know you're not just tired."
He froze, jaw tight. "I can manage. I always do."
"You always do, huh?" I muttered, exhaling. "Maybe it's time you didn't. Let me help you, Alex."
Finally, he gave a small, reluctant nod. He held out his hands, and I knelt before him, removing the bandages slowly. The wounds were worse than I had imagined: faintly red, some scratches reopening, the skin raw along the knuckles and wrists.
I kept my voice low, even, though my heart was pounding. "You're pushing too hard. You can't keep doing this alone."
He looked away, silent. His dark red eyes were shadowed with fatigue, but also something deeper — vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to see.
"I don't want you worrying," he muttered finally, almost to himself.
"You're not fine," I said quietly, gripping his wrists gently but firmly. "And I am worried. That's what partners do. That's what friends do."
He swallowed, jaw tight, then flinched as I applied a disinfectant to the cuts. I winced at his sharp inhale. "Sorry," I said softly.
"It's alright," he whispered. "I'm just… weak right now."
"You're not weak," I countered, brushing a strand of white hair from his face. "You're human. And that's okay. But hiding it isn't."
There was a long silence. The quiet hum of the lamp and the distant whisper of the forest outside filled the space.
Finally, I said, "There. Cleaned. Now I'll rebandage them properly."
He watched me, still silent. I wrapped the cloth carefully around his wrists, noticing how tense he remained. "You okay?" I asked softly.
"I will be," he murmured.
I nodded, but something in me refused to believe it. The tension in his shoulders, the pale tremor in his fingers, the hollow look in his eyes — it all screamed otherwise.
When the bandages were secure, he exhaled, sinking onto the couch with a long, tired groan. I sat beside him.
"You should leave," he said after a while, voice low.
"I'm not going anywhere tonight," I said firmly. "You're hurt, tired, and I'm not letting you face this darkness alone."
He gave a faint, humorless laugh. "You really are insufferable sometimes, Leo."
"Yeah," I said, shrugging. "But sometimes insufferable is the only thing that keeps people alive."
The house was quiet again, the kind of quiet that presses against your chest if you let it. I noticed the shadows creeping along the walls and swallowed hard. The darkness outside still unsettled me.
"I don't want to go back out there," I admitted, voice small.
Alex tilted his head, his eyes softening. "Then don't."
I hesitated. "You… I mean, we only have one bed."
He glanced toward the bedroom. "I suppose… you could stay like yesterday."
I nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll stay."
We moved to the bedroom in silence. The single bed sat neatly, small but enough for both of us. He climbed in first, motioning for me to slide in beside him.
The space was tight, but I welcomed it. My shoulder brushed against his chest, and I felt the steady beat of his heart. His warmth radiated through the thin quilt, calming the knots in my stomach.
I exhaled slowly, the fear of the night easing slightly under the safety of his presence. "Thanks," I whispered.
He said nothing, just held me.
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the warmth of his body against mine, the quiet acceptance that I wasn't alone — it was grounding.
"I'm sorry," I murmured after a while. "For worrying, for pushing, for… everything."
"You don't have to apologize," he said softly. "Just… stay."
I nodded, curling closer. "I will. Always."
We lay there in silence, letting the night carry us into a fragile, fleeting peace. Outside, the mist settled over the forest, thick and quiet. The streets were empty. The world still felt dangerous, unpredictable, and dark.
But for now, in that small room at the edge of the woods, it didn't matter.
Because we had each other.
And that was enough.