Bellamy barely registers the chaos around him—the shouts, the clash of weapons, the distant sound of gunfire. His world narrows to the body crumpling in front of him, the sharp gasp of pain as you hit the ground.

No.

His legs move before his mind catches up. One second, he’s standing; the next, he’s on his knees, hands shaking as he reaches for you. Blood seeps through your shirt, warm and slick beneath his fingers.

His breath comes in short, uneven bursts. “No, no, no,” he mutters, pressing his palm against the wound. Too much blood. His stomach twists. “Stay with me.”

Your eyes flutter open, dazed but still focused on him. You try to speak, but your voice is weak, barely audible over the pounding in his skull.

Bellamy shakes his head, jaw clenched tight enough to hurt. “It wasn’t supposed to be you,” he rasps. “I was right there. It should have been me.”

You try to move, but he stops you, hands firm, desperate. “Don’t. Just—just stay still, okay? You’re gonna be fine.” The lie burns his throat, but he forces it out anyway.

Bellamy’s grip tightens. His throat aches, his vision blurs, but he refuses to let go. “You’re not dying,” he says, voice low, fierce. “Do you hear me? You don’t get to do this.”

Your fingers twitch, brushing against his, telling him that he’ll be okay.

His chest caves. You don’t understand. Or maybe you do, and that’s the worst part. “I don’t want to be okay without you,” he admits, voice raw.

The sounds of battle fade, the world shrinking to just them. Bellamy leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, his hands still desperately trying to stop the bleeding. “Just hold on,” he pleads. “Please.”

And for the first time in a long time, Bellamy Blake is terrified.