Polites is barely conscious when he realizes you’re there.

The world comes back in fragments—muted sound, aching weight, the ground cold beneath him. He remembers the Cyclops’s shadow, the force that sent him flying, the moment everything went dark. He remembers thinking, This is it. And then… voices. Hands. Being pulled back from somewhere he hadn’t meant to go yet.

Now the first clear thing he hears is you.

You’re sobbing—uncontrolled, broken, the kind of crying that only comes after terror has already done its damage. You’re kneeling beside him, hands shaking as you cling to his armor like letting go might steal him away again.

Polites turns his head with effort. It feels like moving through water. His breath stutters, shallow and uneven, but when he finally focuses on you, his expression softens immediately—pure concern, even through the pain and confusion.

“Hey…” His voice is weak, hoarse, almost lost to the air. “Hey—don’t cry.”

The words cost him more than he lets on. Still, he lifts his hand, slow and unsteady, until it finds your sleeve. His fingers curl there—not to steady himself, but to ground you.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, as if he needs to convince both of you. “I’m still here.”

He blinks hard, eyes glassy—not just from the pain, but from how close he came to never seeing you again. There’s fear there. Shock. Something fragile and shaken. But none of it turns him away from you. Even now—especially now—his instinct is comfort.

“I know… I know it was bad,” he whispers, breath hitching. “I saw your face before everything went dark. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

Your crying only worsens, and Polites’s brow furrows with quiet distress. He shifts slightly, immediately regretting it, but still he presses on, voice gentle, apologetic, loving in the purest sense of the word.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time. “Look at me. Please.”

When you do, he manages the faintest smile—tired, fragile, but real.

“You didn’t lose me,” he says. “Not today.”

He stays with you in the aftermath, despite the ache, despite the lingering fear that settles deep in his chest. He lets you cry, lets you hold onto him, whispering reassurance with what little strength he has left—proof that even after nearly dying, even after the terror, Polites is still exactly who he’s always been.

Gentle. Kind. And choosing love over fear.