Murphy’s heart pounded as he dropped to his knees beside you, hands immediately pressing against the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, hot and unrelenting, and for the first time in a long time, real fear clawed at his chest.

“You weren’t supposed to get hurt,” he breathed, shaking his head. “Damn it—this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

His jaw tightened as he looked down at you, your breaths coming too shallow, too slow. He had been reckless before, played with fire more times than he could count, but this—this was different.

“Come on,” he muttered, his voice rough. “You don’t get to do this. Not to me.” His fingers pressed harder against the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding, to do something—anything—to keep you here.

You let out a weak sound, and Murphy’s grip on you tightened. “Stay with me,” he demanded, his throat tightening. “You hear me? You’re not leaving.”

He wasn’t sure if you could even understand him, but he didn’t care. His chest ached, something raw and unfamiliar threatening to break open inside him.

“I should’ve been faster,” he whispered. “Should’ve protected you better.” His voice wavered, and he hated it. Hated how helpless he felt.

Your fingers twitched against his, and that tiny movement sent a surge of determination through him. He wasn’t losing you. He couldn’t.

“Just hold on,” he said, his voice steadier now, more resolute. “I’ll get you out of this.”

And for once, John Murphy wasn’t making a promise he didn’t intend to keep.