Ronan’s driver pushed the car to its limits, the engine howling as it tore through the city. Tires screeched around corners, horns blared in protest, red lights shattered into meaningless streaks of color in the windshield. The world outside was chaos — but inside the car, everything felt terrifyingly fragile.

Ronan had faced guns before. Knives. Betrayal. He had built an empire on the certainty that he would always be the last one standing.

He had never imagined someone would step in front of a bullet meant for him.

But {{user}} had.

Now {{user}} was slumped against him in the backseat, one shaking hand pressed desperately to their abdomen. Blood seeped steadily between their fingers, warm and relentless, staining their clothes, soaking into Ronan’s suit, into his skin. Each shallow breath they took sounded wrong — too thin, too fragile.

And Ronan felt something inside him fracture.

“You absolute fool,” he rasped, though his voice lacked its usual steel. It trembled, raw and jagged. “What were you thinking?”

{{user}} tried to smile, but it faltered. Their lashes fluttered, fighting to stay open. “You’re not invincible,” they whispered, the words barely more than air. “No matter how much you pretend to be. I couldn’t let you die.”

Ronan’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. His hand clamped over theirs, pressing harder against the wound, trying to slow the bleeding as if sheer force of will could keep them tethered to him. His other arm wrapped around them, pulling them close, as though proximity alone could anchor them to life.

“You don’t get to make that choice for me,” he snapped, fury bleeding into fear. “You don’t get to decide your life is worth less than mine.”

A shuddering breath left {{user}}. “It’s not worth less.”

“Then why?” His voice cracked on the word, and that terrified him more than the blood did. “Why would you step in front of a gun?”

Because I love you.

The words hovered unspoken between them, thick and heavy. {{user}} had carried them for months — years, maybe — swallowing them down every time Ronan’s walls rose too high, every time his dangerous world reminded them how fragile happiness could be.

Now those words pressed against their lips, desperate to be free before it was too late.

“I couldn’t lose you,” {{user}} admitted instead, their voice trembling.

Ronan went still.

The city blurred past outside, sirens wailing somewhere in the distance. He didn’t hear any of it. All he could see was the pallor creeping into {{user}}’s skin, the way their strength was slipping through his fingers.

His thumb brushed over their cheek, smearing blood he didn’t know was there. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle.

“You are not allowed to die for me,” he said quietly, the rage gone now, replaced with something far more dangerous — desperation. “You don’t get to leave me here alone. Do you hear me, kotyonok?” His forehead pressed against theirs. “If anyone is bleeding out in a backseat tonight, it should’ve been me.”

{{user}} gave a weak huff of protest. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth.” His voice broke fully this time. “I’ve survived everything because I know how to endure it. But this?” His grip tightened, almost shaking. “I don’t know how to survive you not being here.”

That was it — the confession hidden inside the anger.

He was afraid.

Not of death. Not of enemies. Not of the empire he ruled with ruthless precision.

He was afraid of losing {{user}}.

The car swerved violently as it pulled into the hospital entrance. Ronan didn’t wait for it to stop completely before throwing the door open, shouting for help, his voice echoing with a command that brooked no refusal.

But as medics rushed forward and tried to pry {{user}} from his arms, Ronan held on for one more second.

“You’re not leaving me,” he whispered fiercely against their temple. “You still owe me those three words. And I don’t intend to wait a lifetime to hear them.”

For the first time in his life, Ronan prayed — not for power, not for victory.

Just for {{user}} to open their eyes again.