Thunder cracks as the door opens—and you’re already swaying.

Rain pours down your face, mixing with blood darkening your coat. You barely manage to say his name before your knees buckle.

Connor catches you on instinct.

“—Christ.”

He pulls you inside as lightning floods the doorway, the door slamming shut behind you. You’re shaking in his arms, soaked, cold, bleeding far more than you should be.

He looks down at your face.

And the world stops.

“…No,” he breathes, disbelief ripping through him. “This isn’t—”

You try to speak. Tell him you need his help. Tell him you’re being hunted.

Instead, you collapse fully against his chest.

He carries you to the table without another word, movements sharp, controlled—muscle memory from centuries of battles and losses. He peels back the ruined fabric, jaw tightening at the sight of the wound.

You hiss as he presses cloth to your side. His touch is firm but careful, reverent in a way it has no right to be.

“I watched you die,” he says quietly, anger bleeding through the concern. “I mourned you for over a hundred years.”

His eyes flick to your face, searching for signs of fading—of illusion.

“You don’t get to come back bleeding on my floor like this.”

Another thunderclap shakes the room.

He tightens the bandage, then stills, his hand lingering far longer than necessary.

“…And yet you’re here,” he admits, voice rough. “And I never stopped caring.”

His gaze hardens with resolve as he meets your eyes.

“Who did this to you?”