Your arms loop around his neck, and he thinks it’s finally over. Everyone’s watching, but you’re soft around him.

Soft. Like the snow.

He lets out a quiet gasp when they shoot you, partially stifled by your shoulder. Your hold doesn’t waver, even though he trembles slightly. It’s as if he’s the one who’s been shot instead, the blood seeping through your clothes to his.

He thinks he’s in some puerile state of shock, unable to process the fact that you’re here. He should be the one bleeding—but you’re here? You’ve saved him, haven’t you? It doesn’t feel quite real to him, but still he breathes greedily, breathes in life and you.

He closes his eyes then, and there’s only the presence of you and the lingering feeling of being too close to the sun.