He knew he was dying.

It wasn’t dramatic or loud the way he always imagined his end would be. No explosions, no triumphant last stand, no victory roar. Just a crushing stillness spreading through his chest, a coldness creeping into his limbs, and the distant echo of battle fading into something muffled and far away.

He hated it.

He hated how weak he felt.

He hated how quiet everything suddenly was.

But more than anything, he hated the thought that he wouldn’t see you again.

His vision blurred, the world tilting in and out of focus, but your face—your stupid, stubborn, infuriating face—stayed sharp in his mind. Clearer than the battlefield. Clearer than the pain. Clearer than anything else he’d ever cared about.

He didn’t want it to be you.

He didn’t want his last thought to be you.

Because that meant he’d lost.

He’d spent years convincing himself that feelings were a distraction, that wanting someone—wanting you—would slow him down, make him soft, make him weak. He told himself he didn’t have time for that, not when he was supposed to become the best, the strongest, the number one hero.

So he ignored it. Ignored you.

Ignored the way his chest tightened whenever you smiled at him, the way his pulse jumped whenever you stood too close, the way he always noticed you even when he pretended he didn’t.

He thought he had time.

Time to figure it out. Time to stop being a coward. Time to tell you.

But now time was slipping through his fingers like ash.

His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven. He could feel his heartbeat stuttering, slowing, threatening to stop altogether. And with every fading second, the truth pressed harder against him, suffocating in a way the injuries never could.

He loved you.

He’d loved you for so damn long. And he never said it. Not once. Not even close.

He wanted to curse himself. To scream. To get up and run to you, even if it killed him faster. He wanted to see you one more time—just once—to look at you without fear, without pride, without all the walls he’d built around himself.

He wanted to tell you everything he’d buried.

That you made him better. That you made him try harder. That you were the only person who ever scared him in a way he respected. That he thought about you more than he ever admitted, even to himself.

His vision dimmed again, black creeping in at the edges.

He wasn’t scared of dying.

He was scared of dying without you knowing.

His fingers twitched uselessly against the ground, reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

"Damn it… I should’ve told you… I should’ve said something… anything… I should’ve… seen you… one last time…"

His chest tightened painfully, then loosened in a way that felt final.

And in the last flicker of consciousness, when everything else fell away—the noise, the pain, the fear—there was only you.

Only the warmth of your smile.

Only the sound of your laugh.

Only the thought of what could have been if he hadn’t been so stupid, so stubborn, so terrified of wanting something for himself.

You were the last thing he held onto.

And then everything went quiet.