"Don't you know I'm no good for you?" Jason whispered, his voice breaking as he pressed the torn fabric of his shirt against your side, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. His hands trembled, slick with your blood, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Not when you were slipping away with every second.

You were fading fast, and he could see it in your eyes. He had danced with death before, held its hand, felt its breath against his ear as it dragged him down into the cold, dark abyss. He had died once already and that was enough. That was more than enough.

Your blood soaked through the shredded pieces of his shirt, sticky and warm, soaking into his fingers, staining his skin. His jaw clenched as he looked down at you, panic rising like a tidal wave he couldn’t hold back.

“You should’ve called me,” he continued, his tone sharp now, almost scolding, trying to keep himself together by focusing on something, anything, other than the fear clawing at his chest. “You were supposed to call me when the party was over. That was the deal.”

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was the reckless one, the one who played chicken with death and didn’t care if he lost. You were supposed to be smarter. Safer. Not lying here in his arms.

“It’s not time for both our goodbyes,” Jason whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t go away. His chest ached in a way he hadn’t felt since that day under the rubble, since the laughter of a madman and the crack of a crowbar.

He held you tighter, like he could anchor you here just by holding on hard enough. “I already died once,” he added quietly, leaning closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m not doing it again, not like this. Not with you.”