Zack’s chest tightened so hard it almost hurt to breathe.

“No—no,” he said quickly, shaking his head before Gage could even finish. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was urgent in a way that felt raw. “You’re not disgusting. Don’t—don’t say that.”

He stepped closer this time, careful, eyes tracking the glass. He peeled his hoodie off without thinking, bunching it up in his hands like it was instinct.

“Ross doesn’t hate you,” Zack said, softer now, like he was afraid the words might break if he pushed them. “He gets… grumpy. And tired. But he doesn’t hate you. I don’t either. I promise.”

The promise wasn’t dramatic. It was shaky. Real.

Zack knelt slowly, keeping distance from the blood and glass, and slid the bundled hoodie toward Gage.

“Okay,” he murmured, grounding himself by narrating. “We’re gonna put this under your foot so you don’t cut it more. Then I’ll help you lean on me. Just—slow. We’ll go slow.”

He finally looked up at Gage’s face, eyes glossy, shoulders shaking, pink hair a mess.

“You’re not a burden,” Zack said quietly. “You’re just… hurting. And loud. And bleeding. Which is kind of a lot, but it’s not a reason to be alone.”

He held his arms out, hesitant but there.

“I’ve got you,” he said—not as a grand declaration, just a statement of intent. “If you want.”