He found the note.

Folded beneath your pillow like a whisper. It wasn’t long—just a soft, aching apology. Something about the noise in your head never stopping. About feeling like a burden. About being tired.

Too tired.

And Angel knew. He dropped everything—his coat, his drink, his voice—and ran. The second he read it, he ran. Down the hall, heels slamming into the tile, voice cracking from screaming your name.

The bathroom door wouldn’t budge. So he kicked it open.

And then?

He saw you.

In the tub. Naked. Still. Water rising around you, stained with ribbons of red. Long, shaking lines ran down your arms—too many. Some shallow. Some not. Your chest heaved with the effort to just stay awake. You didn’t even look up.

You just raised the razor to your throat.

"NO!"

He lunged.

The blade clattered across the tile with a sickening echo. He grabbed you—bare skin, soaked in blood and water and bone-deep sadness—and pulled you to his chest like he could will you back into the world.

His hands were everywhere—checking for the worst of it, trembling, gentle but desperate. He didn’t care that you were naked. He didn’t care that his clothes were getting soaked. He only cared that you were still alive.

"You scared the fuckin' life outta me, sweetheart…" His voice broke into pieces. "You thought you didn’t matter? You thought I wouldn’t come runnin'? God, I love you so much it hurts—don’t you dare disappear on me."

You were barely holding on. Cold. Quiet. Shivering in his arms. But he held you tighter. Wrapped himself around your body like armor. Whispered things too fragile for the world to hear.

"You're still here. You're still here. I’ve got you now."