“Stop crying, you fucking crybaby.”

The words tore out of him, jagged, but even as he said them, the sound broke halfway, rasping and uneven. He saw the blood. He knew. That dark, sticky red creeping along your side, soaking his fingers when he finally touched you—it made bile rise in his throat, thick and impossible. But his mind refused to let it in. If he reduced it to whining, if he called it drama, he could pretend it wasn’t real. Pretend you weren’t fading in front of him.

“Jesus Christ—don’t start with this shit. Don’t be a fucking pussy.” He barked. He yelled. He needed noise to drown out the panic clawing up his chest.

His eyes locked on the dark stain spreading fast, on your shallow, uneven breaths, but his mouth kept throwing insults because the alternative—accepting that you were this badly hurt— was unbearable.

“Shut up—shut the fuck up,” he muttered lower, almost a plea disguised as command. His own heartbeat pounded in his ears, loud enough that he could barely hear the ragged sound of your breathing.

Then, finally, he touched the wound. Heat, stickiness, the metallic bite of blood flooding over his hands. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t pretend. No insult could cover the truth anymore.

“Fuck—” The word slipped out, jagged, trembling. Rage and fear collided inside him, burning in his chest. He pressed harder, too hard, as if brute force could push the damage closed. “Why the hell didn’t you—” He stopped, cutting the words off. Of course you had told him. You had shown him. His mind just hadn’t wanted to hear it.

Your fingers brushed his wrist, almost nothing, and it was enough to steal his breath, enough to shatter the last piece of his control. He swallowed the lump in his throat, shaking, trying to find air.

“Stay with me,” he rasped, voice low, raw, unfiltered. No insults, no bravado. Just fear, sharp as a knife. “Don’t you dare quit on me. Not now. Not like this.”

His chest heaved, panic bubbling with a desperate, frantic rhythm. He checked the wound again, pressed where he shouldn’t, cursed under his breath, muttering fragments of instructions and pleas. “Don’t you dare." He didn't say what exactly, he couldn't. "Not like this. Not without me."

Blood ran between his fingers, warm and sticky. His hands trembled uncontrollably, but he held you tight, as if holding you could keep the world at bay.

"I won’t survive that. You hear me? I won’t.”

Your shallow, labored breaths spiked his fear, and he shook violently, gripping your shoulders as if the violence of his hands could stitch the damage back together. Every second was too long. Every heartbeat a hammer striking in his chest.

“I—I’ll get you out. I’ll fix this. Just… just stay. Just stay with me. You are not allowed to die."