The lights of the arena flickered behind them, dimming now that the battle was over. The thick scent of burnt demon ichor lingered in the air like stage fog gone sour, and the ruined set still sparked from residual energy. You stood at the edge, swaying slightly—shoulder torn, side bruised purple-black beneath your sequin jacket. But you didn’t stop. You never did.

Rumi spotted the tremble in your legs first. Her voice caught in her throat, the adrenaline still buzzing in her silver-marked fingertips. She took a half-step toward you but stopped—because she knew. Knew how much you hated being seen like this. Knew you'd flinch away from pity more than from a blade.

Mira dropped her weapon with a metallic thunk, a muscle jumping in her jaw. “She’s doing that thing again,” she muttered, not even trying to keep her voice down. Her pigtails whipped behind her as she stomped over, slowing only when she saw the way your hand clutched your side—shaking, but stubborn.

“She’s gonna collapse before she lets one of us touch her,” Mira added bitterly, shooting a glance at Rumi. “Again.”

Zoey was already there, halfway between a pep and a panic, her hands fluttering uselessly before she made herself stop. She knew you hated fuss. But her lips trembled anyway.

“You didn’t even tell us you were bleeding…” she whispered, voice raw with that soft tremor that always cracked through when someone she loved was hurting.

Rumi stepped in, quiet but firm. Her fingers brushed Zoey’s, grounding her, before reaching for yours. “You don’t have to carry it all,” she said softly, her voice not a plea—just truth. “Not with us.”

You didn’t answer. You never did when it hurt like this.

So they moved around you carefully. Mira, tense and biting back frustration. Zoey, gentling your weight under her small arms. Rumi, steady and close. Not forcing help. Just… being there. Together. Holding you up—until you let yourself lean.