The gauze was already tinted pink, and Conner's jaw was clenched just tight enough to show he was mad—but not at you. He knelt in front of you on the bathroom floor, the kit open beside his knee and a steady hand dabbing antiseptic against the cut above your ribs. He didn’t say much at first. The silence felt heavier than it should’ve. Only the quiet drip of the faucet and the soft rip of bandage wrappers filled the room.

“You weren’t supposed to take that hit,” he finally muttered, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. Not accusing—just… scared. His thumb brushed your side a little too gently for a friend. “Next time, you wait for backup. Next time, I’m there faster.” The words carried more than just frustration; they were layered with guilt, with something unspoken that trembled at the edge of each breath. He didn’t want to lose you. And tonight, he almost did.