You hadn’t meant to keep it from him—not really. But with adrenaline still rushing and the mission technically complete, you figured it could wait. The slash wasn’t that deep… at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. You press your hand harder against your side, the blood already soaking through your shirt, dark and sticky.

Sam’s walking ahead of you, flashlight beam bouncing through the abandoned warehouse. He’s talking—something about the sigils you found—but his voice gets quieter. Or maybe it’s you, fading a little.

You stumble.

That’s all it takes.

He’s there in an instant, turning, catching your arm, and steadying you. “Hey—whoa, are you—” His eyes flick down. The flashlight catches the red blooming under your jacket. His expression shifts, sharp and alarmed.

“You’re hurt.” His voice is rough. Not loud, but it cuts.

You try to wave it off, but he’s already kneeling beside you, hands gentle but insistent. “Why didn’t you say anything? Dammit, you’re—” He exhales through his nose, like he’s trying not to panic. “Come on. Sit down. Let me see.”

There’s that crease between his brows. The one that means he’s worried. The one that means you scared him.