Murphy’s hands were shaking. He never let them shake. Not when he was running for his life, not when he was staring death in the face. But now—now, with you lying there, struggling to keep your eyes open—he couldn’t stop the tremor in his fingers as he pressed against the wound.

“Stay with me,” he muttered, voice raw. Blood coated his hands, warm and slick, and he knew he was running out of time. “Just—just stay awake, okay?”

You let out a weak breath, barely nodding, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to convince him you’d be okay.

Murphy swallowed hard, forcing down the panic rising in his throat. He should have gotten you out sooner. Should have been faster. Smarter. Should have never let you get hurt in the first place.

His jaw clenched, frustration and fear twisting together in his chest. “I should have told you sooner,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

He wasn’t even sure if you could hear him, but the words spilled out anyway. “That I—” His voice cracked, and he let out a harsh breath. “That you mean something to me. More than I ever wanted to admit.”

His fingers curled tighter around yours. “You can’t leave. Not before I get to say it properly.”

Your breathing was shallow, but your grip tightened—just enough for him to feel it. Enough to send a flicker of hope through him.

Murphy let out a shaky laugh, even as his vision blurred. “You hear that? You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Help was coming. It had to be. And when you made it out of this, he wouldn’t waste another damn second.