You were bleeding, but he didn’t panic.

Barry never panicked.

He just knelt beside you in the ruined hallway, flashlight flickering against the cracked concrete, and assessed the wound with eyes that had seen worse.

“This’ll need stitches,” he said, voice low and sure. “But you’ll live.”

You nodded, jaw clenched. “Feels like hell.”

“Yeah. That means it’s working.”

He smiled faintly, and you didn’t bother to hide the weak laugh it pulled from you.

The safehouse was a mile out. He carried you the last half.

No questions. No drama.

His coat around your shoulders. His hand steady under your ribs.