He should’ve been here by now.

That thought barely finishes forming before the air turns sharp and cold, the kind that settles into your lungs and makes the world feel thinner. This isn’t new. Over the years, brushing against death has become almost routine for you—too much blood on the ground, too little strength left in your limbs, that familiar sensation of something tugging away from your body.

And inevitably, he follows.

At first, Death only watched. A shadow at the edge of your vision, waiting with the patience of something that knew it would win eventually. By the third time you didn’t quite die, you’d started talking just to keep yourself conscious. You told yourself it was delirium. Shock. Hallucinations brought on by pain.

Then el lobo answered.

Short, irritated remarks. Dry. Cutting. Always implying you were wasting his time. But he stayed. Each time, he stood a little closer. Let you see him clearly—red eyes, pale fur, the quiet threat of steel—while you dragged yourself back from injuries that should’ve ended you.

The cold deepens.

Death is already there when you look up, far closer than usual, red eyes fixed on you with unmistakable tension. His sickles are in his hands this time, metal humming faintly as if responding to his mood.

“…You’re late,” he mutters, not to you—but to the unseen forces pressing in around you both.

His grip tightens on the weapons before he snaps them shut with a sharp flick of his wrist, forcing himself to step back instead of forward. Claws flex. Jaw tight.

“What was it this time, travieso?” he growls, gaze sweeping over you with practiced precision. He notes every injury, every shallow breath, the way your soul hasn’t quite settled where it belongs. “You’re getting careless.”

You sway—and before you can catch yourself, his hand closes around your wrist. Firm. Grounding. Not gentle, but deliberate. Necessary. He doesn’t let go right away.

“They pulled it back again,” Death snarls quietly, eyes lifting for just a moment, fury simmering beneath his restraint. “Right as I reached for you.”

His grip lingers a second longer than required before he releases you, stepping just out of reach—never far.

“Don’t tempt them,” he says, voice lower now. Controlled. “Or me.”

Those red eyes return to yours, sharp and searching.

“One day they won’t interfere,” he adds. “And when that moment comes… I’ll be the only one standing here.”

A pause.

“So try not to die in the meantime,” Death finishes, irritation masking something far more dangerous. “I don’t enjoy being called away like this.”