The cabin was dead quiet, save for the heavy, ragged breaths that sawed through the thick, chilled air. You could feel every heartbeat ricochet through your skull, pulsing in your temples, a scary reminder that you were still alive—barely. The Demodog lay in a twitching heap not too far from where you and Steve slumped against the same couch you've had all your life, its black blood pooling around its corpse like some macabre halo.

Your arms felt like they were made of lead, too tired to lift even a finger, every muscle screaming from the battle just minutes ago. You blinked against the haze in your vision, trying to process that it was over—for now, eyes half-lidded but still sharp with adrenaline.

His bangs were matted with blood—his or the Beast's, you couldn't tell—and his eyes were wide with the shock of the victory. Steve's hands trembled as he reached for the first-aid kit you had prepared months ago, pulling out the alcohol wipes and gauze with a shaky grip. His voice was raw, a mere whisper over the silence and he looked you in the eye. "Holy shit- You okay? No, of course not- what am I saying?" His question trailed off as he took in the gash across your cheek, the crimson rivulets that painted your neck.

"I've never felt so alive." He added anxiously, meant it, in a twisted sort of way. The words hung between you, so true. You chuckle and he answers with his warm smirk of stubborn survival.