Fifth

You hadn't seen each other for a month. You thought he'd resigned himself to it.

I was wrong.

He was waiting for you by the back door. Not in the hallway—there would be too many witnesses there. Here, by the old door where you once secretly smoked. Five was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His cup was gone. His watch was still there—he never took it off, even in the shower.

"Why?" he asks without greeting. His voice is harsh, but not angry. There's something else in it—the weary determination of a man who's run through every theory in his head and now wants the one that's real.

You remain silent. You try to get around.

He takes a step. Blocks.

“A month,” he says, almost in a whisper. “I came back to an empty room. Slept on your side of the bed. Sniffed your pillow like a complete idiot.” Five clenches his jaw. “Tell me. Just tell me. I won’t explode.”

“Because that’s how it has to be,” you answer quietly.

His eyes narrow.

— Who "needs" it? Me? You? Your stupid sense of self-preservation?

You look away again. He comes closer—right up close. The smell of coffee, old paper, and something apple-like. Your shampoo. He still uses it.

"I went through the Apocalypse alone. Killed people, ate rats, lived with a mannequin." Five leans toward your ear, his lips almost touching. "And I survived only because I knew: somewhere there was a world where someone was waiting for me. Then you came. And now you're gone. Without a reason. Without a word."

You hear him swallow.

"I'm not going back to this house," he said quietly but firmly. "I won't sit in this kitchen, I won't talk to these idiots. I won't live." Five steps back exactly a centimeter, looking straight into his eyes. "Until my princess returns."

.