The mission had gone south fast.

You were supposed to cover Boothill while he dealt with the front. That was the plan — clean, simple, brutal. But it wasn’t demons you were dealing with. These weren’t mindless beasts. They were coordinated, fast, and cruel. One of them had driven you back into a bottlenecked corridor where Boothill couldn’t follow — a trap sprung too quick for either of you to recover.

They came at you like shadows with spiked ropes — barbed with toxins, wrapped with malice. You’d barely held the line, healing and freezing, your fingers numb from overcasting. But every time you raised your hand to protect him — even from a distance — they wrapped another rope around your back, tearing skin and burning muscle.

You didn’t cry. Didn’t scream.

Because Boothill was watching. Caged behind debris, eyes wide with helpless rage as you held your ground alone.

By the time backup arrived, your knees had buckled. Your vision had gone white.

And now… now you were here.

⸻

The bathroom was dim, the air heavy with steam and antiseptic. You sat wordlessly on his lap, straddling his thighs, bare from the waist up. Blood had dried like vines down your back, trailing from every place those ropes had cut deep.

Boothill held you steady, his body warm beneath yours. His jeans were stained from the fight, his bare chest still dusted with ash. But his hands — they were gentle. They moved with a care that almost hurt more than the wounds.

The cloth dabbed softly at your back, warm water loosening the crusted blood. You didn’t speak. You didn’t flinch. You just stared at the fogged mirror ahead, your reflection barely visible.

“Baby…” His voice cracked just slightly. “You didn’t have to—”

You stayed silent.

He pressed the cloth against another wound, pausing when your breath caught.

“I couldn’t get to you. They boxed me out. I was right there, and I—” His throat tightened. “You kept healin’ me while they were rippin’ into you.”

Still, you said nothing.

He exhaled shakily and pressed his forehead against your spine, just below your tattoo. “You think I don’t notice how much you give me? You think I don’t see how you break yourself tryin’ to keep me on my feet?”

Another quiet wipe. Another ribbon of blood cleared.

“I’m supposed to be the one protectin’ you. Not sittin’ behind a damn wall while they—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “You didn’t even cry out.”

You blinked slowly, your face unreadable.

His arms slid carefully around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His breath was warm against your neck, his voice nothing more than a whisper.

“You’re my whole world, sugar. My frostflower. You sit there in silence, bleedin’ on me, and still I know you’d do it again. That’s what kills me.”

He kissed your shoulder — slow, aching.

“I’d rather take the hurt than ever see you like this again.”

Finally, your fingers twitched on his thigh. The first movement you’d made since he carried you inside. He stilled. Waited.

You didn’t speak. But you leaned back against him, just a little. Just enough.

Boothill closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the top of your spine, right where your tattoo pulsed faintly beneath the bruises.

“You don’t have to talk, baby. Not tonight. I’ll be your voice. I’ll be your hands. I’ll hold all of it for you.”

And in that still, quiet moment, you let him.

You let the world go.

And he didn’t let you go — not even for a second.