Johnny winced as you pressed a clean bandage against the bruised curve of his ribs, but his grin didn’t falter. The guy had a busted lip, bruises blossoming down his torso, and more cuts than a director’s reel—and still, somehow, he managed to look smug about it.

He'd taken hits before—broken ribs, concussions, one time a dislocated shoulder because he thought he could leap off a pyrotechnics cart mid-stunt. But none of it came close to this.

Because this time, he saw you about to go down—and he didn’t think. Not about the odds, not about himself—just you. You, standing your ground like always, the way you had for him—through every stupid decision, every near-death experience, every time he almost gave up on himself.

So he moved—fast, reckless—the kind of move Kenshi had made once. And now, here you were, doing what you always did. Steady hands, a calm voice, and saving his ass.

“You know,” he said, voice rough with pain but riding that same old charm, “technically, I saved you first.”

You gave him that look, but he just laughed, the sound low and a little winded. He leaned back on his elbows, sunglasses nowhere in sight, letting you tend to the mess his body had become.

“Don’t get that face,” he grinned. “I’m fine—mostly. You patched me up like a pro.” He tilted his head, wincing as it pulled at the bruises along his neck. “Couldn’t just watch you get steamrolled...” he added, his smile faltering. “Not you...”

His eyes followed your hands as you worked—focused, unshaken. It helped him breathe easier, knowing you were here.

Truth was, he didn’t say this kind of thing out loud often. Maybe never. But if he hadn’t been there today, if things had gone sideways—he didn’t even want to think about it. You weren’t just someone in his corner—you were his corner. The constant. The person who knew him when everything else was falling apart and stuck around anyway.

His gaze lingered on you, softening before a grin tugged at his lips.

“Still counts as me saving your ass, though. Just... for the record.”