You slammed the motel door behind you, hard enough that the mirror on the wall trembled. The sound didn’t even make him flinch. Lucas sat on the edge of the bed, shirt soaked in blood, one hand clutching his side like he could somehow keep everything from spilling out. The moment you saw the red, everything inside you went white-hot. “You were supposed to stay low,” you snapped, throwing your bag of supplies down. “You promised me.” Lucas didn’t meet your eyes. He never did when he knew he’d broken something. “You got shot, again.”

“It grazed me.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.” You grabbed the first aid kit with more force than necessary, nearly tossing it on the nightstand. “Take your damn jacket off.”

“It’s already off.”

“The rest of it, Lucas.” Your voice was tired. He peeled off the ruined Henley with a grimace, the deep gash along his rib cage still oozing. You moved in, kneeling beside him as you soaked a cloth in alcohol and pressed it hard against the wound. He flinched. “Good,” you snapped. “Glad you can still feel something.” He didn’t respond. He never did when you were like this. “This is the third time in two weeks,” you muttered, taping gauze down harder than necessary. “Three shootouts. Two knives. One bullet that missed your artery by less than an inch, and for what? Another pissing match with Proctor’s thugs? Another body in the river?”

Lucas glanced away, jaw clenched. “It’s not like I plan these things.”

“That’s the problem,” you said, rising to your feet. “You never plan. You react. You throw yourself into chaos and I just… clean up the pieces afterward.”

Lucas gritted his teeth. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“No. You didn’t. But you damn well knew I would.” You looked up at him then, your hands soaked, your voice shaking. “I’m the idiot who keeps showing up to watch the man I-” You bit your tongue. Hard. He watched you now, like he’d heard what almost came out of your mouth.

“What?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You ignored him, reaching for the sewing needle. “This is gonna hurt.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should. Because if you die like this, bleeding out in a shitty motel room like some cautionary tale, I swear to God, Lucas, I will never forgive you.”

“For dying?”

“For not giving me a choice. You go into these things like you’re alone. Like no one gives a damn what happens to you. But I do. I do, and you use that against me.”

“I don’t,” he muttered.

“You do.” You looked him dead in the eyes. “You call me when you’re desperate. You let me in when you’re bleeding. But when you’re breathing? When you’re okay? You disappear.”

His jaw clenched. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t care what you’ve done!” you yelled, louder than you meant to. “I care about who you are now. And what you are right now is someone who keeps playing roulette with his life and dragging mine down with it!” He stood abruptly, towering over you despite the pain. Blood dripped down his side, staining the carpet.

“Then walk away,” he said, voice sharp. “No one’s making you stay.”

You stood too, chest rising fast. “Don’t give me that. You want me to stay. You just can’t say it. Because that would mean you actually need someone.” He stared at you like the words had gutted him. “I’m not a bandage Lucas, I’m a person. Someone who actually gives a damn if you’re breathing tomorrow.” You huff. He stares at you, lost for words.

“I get that.” He said lowly.