The world had gone quiet.

The battle was over, the fires still smoldering in the distance, but none of it mattered—not when Bellamy was standing in front of you, bruised, bleeding, but alive.

You had spent hours believing otherwise. Hours thinking he was gone, torn away like so many others. And now, here he was, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, his dark eyes locked onto yours like he couldn’t believe it either.

Then, suddenly, his hands were on you—gripping your face, fingers pressing into your skin like he needed to feel them solid and real beneath his touch. His forehead dropped against yours, breaths shaky, uneven.

“I love you.”

The words came out raw, almost broken, like they had been waiting too long to be said.

A beat of silence. His hands lingered, but something shifted in his expression. Like he hadn’t meant to say it. Like he wanted to take it back.

Bellamy pulled away, clearing his throat, already shaking his head. “Forget it,” he muttered. “It’s—”

He stopped.