Clark doesn’t let go of you right away.

He should. He knows he should. But his hands are still braced at your sides, steadying you like the ground might give out if he doesn’t. Your breathing is uneven. Too fast. His chest tightens at the sound.

Too close. You’re standing too close. Let go.

He eases back half a step instead, eyes scanning you in quick, practiced motions—checking for blood, for pain, for anything he might’ve missed. The danger’s gone, but his body hasn’t caught up yet.

“You okay?” His voice comes out low, careful. Controlled. Like if he says it too loud, something bad will happen again.

There’s a flicker of a smile—thin, teasing. “You’ve got this… habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

It doesn’t stick.

His jaw tightens. The humor drains almost instantly, replaced by something heavier. Relief, sure—but layered with fear so sharp it still hums under his skin.

I was too late. I almost—

He swallows.

His hand lifts toward your arm, fingers hovering just short of contact. He stops himself, curling his hand into a fist instead and shoving it into his jacket pocket.

“Next time,” he murmurs, softer now, “maybe wait for me, yeah?”

The words aren’t logical. He knows that.

But the look in his eyes says something else entirely: I can’t lose you. I don’t know what I’d do if I did.