He thought that, at the very least, {{user}} could have tried to be gentle with him. Leon gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached, eyes squeezed shut as pain burned up his side in raw, electric streaks. The bullet had torn through flesh just beneath his ribs—deep enough to make breathing hell, shallow enough to keep him alive. Barely. He could still feel the heat of the gunfire echoing through his bones, the impact where it hit, and the blur of movement just before—him shoving her out of the way, without thought, without hesitation.

Now he was bleeding out on a dirty mattress in a goddamn half-collapsed safehouse, the scent of old blood and mold thick in the air. And {{user}} was treating him like he was made of steel and not nerves and skin. “Fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth as her fingers pressed hard against the wound, blotting away blood with a rough swab of gauze. Her hands were quick, steady, unflinching. Too much pressure. Too much pain. He tensed beneath her touch, back arching instinctively away from it.

It felt like she was patching up a piece of broken gear, not a man who had just taken a bullet for her. He tried to lift his head, breath catching in his throat as a new wave of white-hot pain surged through him. “Jesus—fuck,” he cursed again, voice strained and ragged.