Christian didn't sleep much after that night.
Even when Steve was stable, when the fever had broken and the bullet wound had started healing, Christian still found himself waking in the middle of the night, gasping for air.
The nightmares didn't stop.
He saw Joe's lifeless eyes. The way Steve had collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. The moment he had pressed his hands against Steve's chest, trying to keep him alive.
Even now, weeks later, when Steve was strong enough to walk on his own, Christian still jolted awake, reaching for him—only to find an empty bed.
Steve didn't sleep beside him.
He didn't say much at all.
⸻
Steve hated this.
He hated the way Christian looked at him—like he was afraid he'd disappear. Hated the guilt in Christian's eyes, the way he hovered like Steve was made of glass.
Like he regretted staying.
Steve knew what had happened to Christian.
What Joe had done before. The things that had been done to him.
And yet, Christian had still come for him. Had still fought for him. Had still loved him, even when Steve didn't deserve it.
Steve should've been the one comforting him.
But he didn't know how.
So he did what he always did.
He pulled away.
⸻
One night, Christian found him sitting outside, cigarette burning between his fingers.
"You're avoiding me," Christian said quietly, arms crossed over his chest.
Steve exhaled smoke. "No, I'm not."
Christian let out a humorless laugh. "Bullshit."
Silence.
Then, softer—
"Steve, if you don't want this anymore... if you don't want me—"
Steve's chest tightened. He turned to look at Christian, the shadows of the streetlamp casting sharp lines across his face.
"I don't know how to do this," Steve admitted. His voice was raw, like the words had been clawed out of him.
Christian stepped closer. "Do what?"
Steve gestured vaguely between them. "This. You—you should be with someone good, Christian. Someone who can actually—"
Christian grabbed his wrist. Not hard. Not to hurt. Just holding.
"I don't want someone else," Christian said. "I want you."
Steve swallowed hard.
Christian's fingers squeezed around his wrist, grounding him.
"You're the only thing that makes me feel safe," Christian whispered.
And Steve?
For the first time in his life, he realized—
Christian was his safe place, too.
Steve got better. Slowly.
The wound healed. The pain dulled.
But the scars? The ones no one could see? Those stayed.
Christian stayed, too.
They fought. A lot. Steve pushed, and Christian pushed back.
"You don't get to decide what's best for me," Christian had snapped one night after Steve had tried—again—to push him away.
"You think I want to hurt you?" Steve had growled.
"I think you're scared," Christian had shot back. "And I don't care. I'm not leaving."
So Steve gave up.
Not on them—but on running.
And maybe... just maybe... things were finally starting to feel okay.
Until Luca called.
⸻
Steve had been lying in bed, when his phone buzzed.
Luca.
Steve frowned and slipped out of bed, answering quietly.
"You really should've listened to me, Steve."
Steve's stomach dropped.
Luca's voice was cold, smooth. The way it always was before something bad happened.
"What do you want?" Steve asked, keeping his voice level.
"You know what I want," Luca said. "You. Back where you belong."
Steve clenched his jaw. "Not happening."
There was a pause. Then—
"Shame. Thought you'd say that."
The sound of muffled struggling.
Then—Christian's voice.
"Steve—"
Then the line went dead.
Steve stood there, the world tilting beneath his feet.
Christian was gone.
And Luca had him.