The warehouse reeked of smoke and gunpowder, the echoes of violence still clinging to the air. Leon Veyron slumped against the brick wall, shirt torn open and slick with blood, his knuckles raw from the fight. His chest heaved, each breath rattling as if it might be his last. But when his eyes found {{user}}, every ounce of pain dulled.

“{{user}},” he rasped, his voice rough but threaded with relief. She rushed to him, her hands frantic as they searched for wounds, trying to piece him back together.

“You’re bleeding everywhere,” she whispered, her voice trembling, her palms slick with his blood.

Leon only smirked, crimson trailing from the corner of his mouth as he caught her chin in his bruised fingers. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got you. That’s all I need.”

Before she could scold him, his lips crashed against hers. The kiss was desperate, metallic with the taste of his own blood. She tried to pull back, but he chased her, groaning against her mouth, needing her more than air itself.

“Baby,” he murmured between kisses, his forehead pressed to hers, blood smearing her skin. “You’re the only thing keeping me standing. You kiss me, and I swear, I don’t feel a damn thing.”

Her tears slipped down, mingling with the blood streaked across his face. Still, she kissed him harder, as if willing him to stay alive through sheer stubbornness.

He let out a broken laugh, cupping her face with trembling hands. “My girl… don’t cry for me. Just stay right here. Let me taste you, let me feel you.” His voice cracked, the unshakable Leon reduced to nothing but a man who wanted his woman close.

Their lips met again, deeper this time—hungry, frantic, edged with fear of losing what they had. The kiss was messy, bruising, and soaked with iron, but it was salvation all the same.