The car stopped quietly in front of the familiar gate.
Randy stepped out slowly, his bandaged hand resting carefully at his side. The wound still stung, a dull reminder of the night that refused to leave his mind.
Home.
The house looked the same as always.
Calm.
Elegant.
Untouched by chaos.
But the moment he entered, his eyes instinctively searched the living room.
Empty.
No soft footsteps.
No quiet figure by the window.
No Claire.
He paused near the stairs. "…She didn't come?"
Randy's father, who had just finished speaking to the staff, glanced at him briefly. "Claire has school today. She's still at her club activities."
A small silence followed.
"She said she would visit after that," his father added calmly.
For a brief second, something unreadable flickered in Randy's eyes.
Then—
He smiled.
Faint.
Relieved.
Almost unconsciously.
"I see."
He loosened his tie slightly and walked further inside, the quiet echo of his footsteps filling the hall. The house suddenly felt larger than usual.
Emptier.
He stopped near the large window in the living room, gazing out at the driveway where the incident had happened just a day ago.
A thin line of sunlight stretched across the pavement.
As if nothing violent had ever stained it.
His bandaged fingers flexed slightly.
The memory replayed—
The blade.
Claire frozen.
The distance between life and death measured in seconds.
"…You froze," he murmured softly to himself, recalling her expression.
Not just fear.
Recognition.
Like she had seen that moment before.
Randy's gaze darkened slightly, thoughtful.
Then he exhaled and leaned back against the sofa, finally allowing himself to sit. The doctor had told him to rest, but rest felt strangely difficult today.
Because the house was too quiet without her presence.
"You should go to your room and sleep," his father said from behind.
Randy shook his head lightly. "I'm not tired."
"You were discharged this morning."
"I know."
Another pause.
Then, more quietly, he added,
"She said she'd come."
His father studied him for a moment but said nothing more.
The clock ticked softly on the wall.
Minutes passed.
Randy rested his injured hand on the armrest, his thumb absentmindedly brushing the edge of the bandage. A faint smile slowly appeared on his lips — small, but genuine.
"She didn't run away," he murmured.
After everything that happened,
after the blood,
after the attack—
She was still coming to see him.
That alone was enough.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting the quiet sunlight warm his face.
"I'll wait," he said softly.
Not impatiently.
Not anxiously.
Just calmly.
Because for the first time since the incident,
the thought of Claire walking through that door later—
felt more reassuring than any medicine.
The clock had barely struck late afternoon when the quiet was interrupted.
A knock.
Soft.
But clear.
Randy's head lifted immediately. His father glanced toward the door, but Randy was already on his feet.
He ignored the slight pull of pain in his palm and walked faster than he should have.
The door opened.And there she was.
Claire stood under the warm sunlight, her school bag still hanging over one shoulder, hair slightly messy from the wind. She looked… normal.
Alive.
Safe.
For a split second, neither of them spoke.
Then Randy stepped forward and pulled her into an embrace.
Tight.
Too tight.
As if she might disappear if he loosened his grip. Claire froze for half a second in surprise.
It had only been two days. Just two days since the hospital.
But the way he held her felt like years of separation. Like relief finally finding a place to land.
Randy buried his face lightly against her hair, his uninjured hand pressing gently against her back.
"You came," he murmured.
Claire slowly relaxed in his arms. "…Of course I did."
She could feel his heartbeat.
Fast.
Unsteady.
Not from pain.
From something else.
After a moment, she gently pulled back to look at him.
"You shouldn't move too much," she said softly, noticing the bandage again.
Randy smiled — that small, quiet smile that only appeared when he was genuinely relieved.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I am," he insisted lightly. "It was just a cut."
Claire stepped inside, removing her shoes. "A cut that required stitches."
Randy closed the door behind her, still watching her like he needed visual confirmation that she was real.
She placed her bag on the sofa and looked around briefly. The house felt calmer in daylight, less heavy than that night.
"So," she said gently, trying to ease the atmosphere, "how are you feeling today?"
"Better," he answered. "It doesn't hurt as much."
"That's good."
A comfortable silence settled between them.
Different from the tense silence before.
This one felt… softer.
Randy suddenly straightened slightly. "You must be hungry. You came straight from school."
Claire blinked. "I'm fine."
"I'll make something."
Before she could react, he walked toward the kitchen.
"Randy."
He turned his head.
"With one hand?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
He looked at his bandaged palm, then back at her, pretending to consider it seriously. "It's manageable."
"It's not."
He gave her a faint teasing look. "You don't trust my cooking?"
"I don't trust your stitches."
That made him chuckle softly.
Claire stepped closer, gently catching his sleeve before he could continue walking.
"Sit down," she said firmly.
Randy looked at her hand on his arm.
Warm.
Real.
"…You're ordering me now?"
"Yes."
"And if I refuse?"
She met his gaze steadily. "Then I'll leave."
He immediately surrendered.
"Alright," he said quickly, almost too quickly.
Claire shook her head slightly, guiding him back to the sofa.
"You just got discharged this morning. You should rest."
Randy sat down obediently, watching her move around the living room like she belonged there.
The quiet afternoon light wrapped around them both.
For a moment, the attack felt distant.
Unreal.
"You know," Randy said softly, leaning back, "I was afraid you wouldn't come."
Claire paused mid-step. "Why?"
"Because it was dangerous."
She looked at him.
"I'm not that fragile."
"I know."
His voice lowered slightly.
"That's what scares me."
Claire didn't respond immediately.
Instead, she sat across from him.
"You don't have to protect me every time," she said gently.
Randy held her gaze.
"If I didn't," he replied quietly, "I wouldn't be able to forgive myself."
The room fell silent again.
But this time—
It wasn't heavy.
It was steady.
Outside, the sun slowly began to lower, painting soft gold against the walls.
And for the first time since the blade flashed in the dark—
Both of them felt something close to peace.
Even if neither of them knew how fragile that peace truly was.