The world had been saved somewhere far above you.

You lay where you'd fallen, half-buried in shattered stone, the air still ringing with the echo of victory you hadn’t been chosen for. The ground was cold beneath your back. Your ribs screamed every time you breathed. Bl00d soaked into the dust, dark and quiet, like it knew better than to make a fuss.

You stared at the sky through a fracture in the ceiling.

He chose the world, you thought—not bitterly. Just tired. He always did.

Footsteps approached, unhurried. You didn’t look. You already knew who it would be.

“I told you,” you said hoarsely, eyes still fixed upward, “to leave me alone.”

A pause. Then—

“I know.”

The voice was gentle. Always gentle with you.

Ilya knelt beside you, his coat brushing the ground, his dark hair falling forward as he leaned in. His smile was already there when you finally looked at him—soft, familiar, practiced. It was the same smile he used when you yelled at him, when you ran from him, when you chose anyone but him.

It wavered this time. Just a little.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

“I’ll heal,” you replied. “He said he'd come back.”

Ilya nodded, like that made sense. Like it didn’t split something open inside him.

“He usually does,” he said.

He reached out anyway, careful hands hovering before settling at your side, steadying you as another tremor ran through your body. You flinched, then didn’t pull away. That, too, was familiar.

The silence between you filled with memories.

You'd once sat like this years ago—backs against a wall, sharing stolen warmth, laughing quietly because laughter felt safer in the dark. Back when the world hadn’t asked you to bleed for it yet. Back when Ilya still believed there were places you could stand without choosing sides.

“You remember,” you murmured suddenly, voice thin, “when we said we’d look out for each other?”

Ilya’s smile softened. Hurt crept into it this time, unmistakable.

“I remember,” he said. “I never stopped.”

You closed your eyes.

“I wish you had,” you whispered.

Ilya’s breath caught. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to be human.

He brushed dirt from your cheek with reverent care, like touching something sacred and breakable. “My love,” he said quietly. Then, after a heartbeat, “My god.”

Your eyes snapped open. “Don’t.”

“I won’t say it again,” he promised. “Not tonight.”

He helped you sit up, pulling you carefully into his chest when your strength failed. You sagged against him despite yourself, forehead pressed to his collarbone. Ilya’s arms came around you without hesitation, holding you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Above you, the sky was bright with a future that had not waited.

Ilya rested his chin lightly against your hair, eyes closing.

“My universe,” he whispered—not for you to hear, but because the words had to exist somewhere before they destroyed him.

“For how much longer?” you asked, voice unsteady. “How long will you keep picking me up like this?”

Ilya’s smile trembled.

“As long as it takes,” he answered. "Now let me take you home."