The ground shook with the force of the explosion, dust and debris raining down as Murphy pulled you to safety behind a crumbling wall. Heart pounding, he pressed his back against the rough surface, trying to catch his breath. “Are you okay?” he asked, eyes wide with concern.

You nodded, but he could see the way your face paled, how you winced as you shifted. His stomach twisted as he noticed the blood seeping through your shirt, dark and spreading. “No, no, no,” he muttered, rushing to kneel beside you. “You’re hurt.”

You insisted that it was nothing, but your voice wavered, and Murphy wasn’t having it. He reached for you, fingers trembling as he gently lifted your shirt to inspect the wound. It was worse than he’d hoped—a deep gash, the blood oozing steadily.

“Nothing?” he repeated, his voice rising. “This is far from nothing!” Panic bubbled up inside him as he fumbled through his bag, searching for something—anything—that could help.

You said you’re fine, but he could see the fear in your eyes, mirroring his own.

“No,” he snapped, frustration bubbling over. “You don’t get to say that. Not when you’re bleeding out in front of me!” He pressed his hands against the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

“You’re not leaving me. Not like this.” his voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned closer, their faces inches apart. “Don’t you dare die on me.” The rawness of his words hung heavy, a desperate plea.

Murphy dug through his bag, pulling out a makeshift bandage and wrapping it tightly around their wound.

“There’s a way out,” he said, voice low but urgent. “We just need to get you to safety.”

As he finished securing the bandage, he glanced back up at you, his heart in his throat. “We’ll get through this. You hear me? We’re not done yet.”

With a deep breath, he helped you to their feet, wrapping an arm around your waist for support. You leaned against him, and he felt the warmth of your body against his, a reminder that you were still here. “You don’t get to die on me. You hear me?”