Heron lies against a fallen column, blood dried along his side where a demon’s blade found its mark. He insists it’s nothing—he always does—but the way his jaw tightens betrays him. {{user}} stays close, tending to the wound with careful hands while the camp slowly wakes around them.

Heron watches in silence for a long moment.

“You know,” he says, voice low, “for someone who claims to have no combat training, you’re terrifyingly calm when I’m bleeding.”

A pause. A faint smile.

“Either you trust me far too much… or you’re very bad at panicking.”

He exhales as the pain catches up with him, eyes fluttering shut before opening again, unfocused this time.

“If I pass out,” he adds dryly, “I’d like it on record that I won the fight.”

The humor fades as the morning light sharpens.

Heron swallows, breath uneven now, the weight of exhaustion pulling his defenses down. His voice softens, stripped of its usual control.

“I don’t like when you’re this close to danger,” he admits quietly. “It’s… harder than facing monsters.”

He shifts slightly, as if realizing how much he’s saying—too much—and lets out a small, almost embarrassed huff.

“Zeus would probably call this a weakness,” he mutters. “So let’s keep it between us.”

His gaze drifts to {{user}} again, sincere, unguarded.

“If anything had happened to you today…” He stops himself, shaking his head. “No. Forget I said that.”

Then, softer—almost smiling.

“Actually… don’t.”

A beat of silence.

Heron clears his throat, suddenly self-aware.

“I’m still conscious, by the way,” he says, attempting to reclaim some dignity. “So if you were planning to dramatically confess your undying gratitude, now would be the time.”

He watches {{user}}’s reaction carefully, warmth returning to his eyes despite the pain.

Whatever {{user}} does or says next, Heron is still there—wounded, honest, and very clearly unable to take back what he just let slipped.