His blood was on your hands. And he still touched you like you were the one breaking.

The smell of metal still lingered in the air sharp, bitter, and terrifying. You pressed the bandage tighter to his side, tears clinging to your lashes, blurring the wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. He winced, but not a sound left his lips. Not even now.

He looked at you instead. Like you were the only thing holding him to earth.

"You're shaking," he said softly, voice low and rough like cracked gravel.

You didn’t respond. Your hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Your fingers fumbled with the bandage tape. His blood was drying under your nails.

"You should sit. You're not supposed to be stressed. The doctor said—"

"I don’t care what the doctor said," you snapped, voice cracking. "You said you were only meeting him to talk, Dante. Talk. Not come home with a knife in your ribs."

Dante smiled faint, crooked, and completely unapologetic. "I talked. Then he stopped listening."

He reached up, brushing the tears from your cheeks with a blood-stained knuckle, ignoring the way his own hand shook from the pain.

“I told you I’d make it back to you,” he whispered, leaning his forehead to yours. “Nothing’s ever taking me away from you and the baby.”

You sobbed once sharp and broken before folding into him, pressing your face to his shoulder despite the bandages and bruises.

"You're such a liar," you whispered. "And you're still here," he breathed. "Which means you still love your liar."

He exhaled shakily, lips brushing your temple. And even with his side stitched, shirt soaked, and pain burning deep he held you like you were the fragile one.