The words leave Killua’s mouth like blades—sharp, sudden, and meant to cut.

Killua yanks his arm from your hands. The sharpness in his voice cuts deeper than any wound he might’ve gotten.

His brows are furrowed, silver hair still sticking to his forehead with sweat from training—or maybe a mission you weren’t allowed on.

“I’m not a baby anymore,” he snaps, yanking his arm from your grip, bandages falling loose in your hand. “Stop treating me like one.”

You freeze. Not because you’re surprised, but because the bitterness in his voice hits deeper than anything else could.

His silver hair sticks to his face, damp from training or blood or both, and his eyes—those electric eyes that always saw too much—are narrowed in that way he does when he wants to hurt before he can be hurt.

He thinks you’re ashamed of him. Or worse, that you pity him. You take a slow breath, fingers curling tightly around the gauze.

He scoffs, backing away like he’s trying to build a wall between you, inch by inch. “I can handle a scratch. You act like I’m gonna fall apart if I breathe wrong.”

You’ve heard the whispers from the butlers, the murmurs behind doors when they think you aren’t listening.

The soft one. The useless one. The sibling with no killer instinct. Doesn’t belong in a house like this. And Killua heard them too. He always does. he wants to protect you from them.