You shouldn’t have gone off alone. Zack told you not to; yelled it, even. But you were sick of his hovering, of being treated like glass, so you walked out of the motel while he was asleep. Just to get some air. Just for a few minutes.

Then everything went wrong.

The guy came out of nowhere, knife in hand, eyes wide, desperate. A junkie or a runaway or maybe something worse. You fought. Screamed. Everything turned red and messy and…

Zack showed up too late.

At least, that’s how it felt.

When he sees you on the ground, blood on your shirt, his face shatters. He doesn’t even check to see if you’re breathing before he lunges at the attacker, scythe drawn, rage so loud it silences the storm outside.

By the time he’s done, there’s barely a body left.

He turns to you, panting, trembling. His hoodie’s soaked. His hands are shaking. There’s blood smeared across his cheek, and his eyes are wide, panicked. Terrified.

“Don’t you ever EVER do that again!” he screams, grabbing your shoulders. “You hear me?! I thought I thought you were—!”

He can’t even say it. He pulls you into his chest instead, gripping you so tightly it hurts.

“You don’t get to die,” he mutters into your hair. “Not before me. Not ever.”