The scent of iron was the first thing you noticed when the silence fell.

The earth beneath your boots was cracked, blackened in some areas, moist in others. The air was thick with dust and something heavier, something stickier: blood. Your heart was still pounding, but your body… your body was fine. Not by luck, not by chance. It was fine because during the fight your teammate, Simon, had done everything to protect you —always positioning himself half a step in front of you, blocking blows that hadn’t been intended for him, absorbing the shock that should have gotten to you.

A few scratches, a shallow cut on your arm, bruises that would develop the next day… that was all the battle had left you with. And you knew exactly why it wasn’t a miracle. It was him.

Simon was kneeling a few meters away from you. His back was slightly hunched, his head lowered, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat and blood. His clothes, always so neat and immaculate, were stained unevenly, dark spots spreading across the fabric.

You took one step, then another. Each step you took was too loud, too obtrusive in the fragile silence. He didn’t turn, didn’t react. Didn’t do anything, and that was what made your breathing quicken. You walked closer until you stood in front of him.

Blood was sliding down his temple, tracing the line of his face before dripping from his chin. His hands were dirty, his knuckles reddened, his skin split in several places. His chest was rising slowly under his torn shirt, but the rhythm was irregular.

You crouched down to his level, your knees touching the cold ground. You could feel the cold seeping into your clothes, but you didn’t care.

You opened your mouth to call out his name, but you didn’t have time.

Simon raised his eyes. It was a laborious process, as if even raising his head took more out of him than he had left. His eyes locked on you right away, and when they did, something in your chest constricted.

His lips twitched.

“Y’know…”

he rasped, his voice rough from effort and the blood he’d swallowed during the fight. He paused for a moment, as if considering whether it was even worth continuing. Then he went on anyway:

“I think I like you.”

Time stood still. The wind died down, and the dust particles were caught in mid-air. Even the pain in your arms seemed to be holding its breath.

You looked at him, and for a moment, you thought you’d heard wrong.

He swallowed faintly, a barely perceptible grimace flickering across his face as he acknowledged the pain, but he didn’t take it back. He didn’t look away, and he didn’t try to correct himself.

Simon wasn’t the kind of person who said things like that. Simon was the kind of person who kept those thoughts hidden behind long silences and sidelong glances… not the kind of person who said them out loud.

But he had seen death touch him in that fight. And he had decided that he had no intention of lying to himself anymore about what he really felt for you.