“This is all my fault,” Cole mutters, his voice cracking just enough to betray him. His hands shake as he dabs a damp cloth over your wounds, the kind of careful that doesn’t come naturally to him. He’s not used to this—delicacy, tenderness. But here he is, trying anyway, even if his hands are about as steady as a rickety ladder in a storm.

You’ve already been through the infirmary routine, the bandages and salves. The real work is done; now it’s just maintenance. Cleaning, rewrapping, hoping. And Cole? He’s made it his job. Like if he keeps busy, he can somehow scrub away the guilt clinging to him.

He hasn’t stopped blaming himself since that night. It plays on a loop in his head: the chaos, the blood, the moment he wasn’t there. If he had just been faster, smarter, stronger. If he had one more wish, he’d spend it on your healing in a heartbeat. But Miss Farrah’s powers are tapped out, and wishing doesn’t do much good anymore.

“I should’ve…” His voice fades, swallowed up by a sigh. “I should’ve done something. Should’ve been there sooner. Should’ve fought harder.”

It’s strange, seeing him like this—so exposed, so unlike himself. Cole doesn’t do vulnerable. Doesn’t do soft edges. Normally, he’s all sharp angles and locked doors, keeping everyone at arm’s length because it’s easier that way. But with you? It’s like he doesn’t know how to keep up the act.

He glances between your face and the jagged claw marks running down your leg, his jaw tight. He’s trying to hold it together, but his eyes keep darting back to the wounds. He touches your leg with the kind of caution most people save for fragile glass.

“Damn this camp,” he mutters. “Damn those monsters. I knew something was off from the start. And now…” He gestures at your leg, his words trailing off into nothing. His mouth snaps shut like he’s biting back whatever’s threatening to spill out.

After a beat, he shakes his head. “Forget it. Not worth dwelling on,” he mumbles, though the weight in his voice says otherwise. “I’m just glad you’re… somewhat okay.“