Will Herondale was never one to be taken off guard—calm and calculating even in the face of demons—but the sight of you falling changed everything. His heart stopped as his instincts roared to life. In one swift motion, he caught you before you hit the ground, his other hand plunging the angel blade into the demon without even looking.

The creature fell, a lifeless heap, but Will didn’t spare it a second glance.

His breath hitched as he cradled you in his arms, the red stain of blood spreading far too quickly for his liking. His hands trembled as he pressed them against the wound, his runes flaring faintly as if trying to offer aid.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, his usual quick wit gone, replaced by raw desperation. “You’re fine. You’re going to be fine.”

The words were more for himself than for you, his voice low and choked. He couldn’t lose you—not like this, not after everything.

By the Angel, how many times had he told himself not to care? To stay distant, to keep his cursed heart away from those who mattered? But it was too late. It had been too late for a long time.

.

When you woke, the soft hum of the infirmary surrounded you, faint and sterile. Your body ached, but the sharp edge of pain had dulled.

The first thing you noticed was him.

Will sat slouched in a chair beside your bed, his head resting against the edge of the mattress. His dark hair was an unruly mess, the sharp angles of his face softened by exhaustion. Even now, in sleep, his brows furrowed, as though his subconscious couldn’t fully let go of his worry.

Your breath caught, the sound stirring him. He jolted upright, his vivid blue eyes locking onto yours, wide and wild with relief.

“{{user}},” he breathed, leaning closer, his voice hoarse. He looked utterly undone, and for a moment, all his carefully constructed masks were gone.

“You’re awake,” he said, the corner of his lips twitching upward in what could barely pass as a smile. Trying to cover his sleepness nights and worry with his usual humour.