The room is spinning just a bit. Not from blood loss—I’ve had worse. It’s the silence. It’s you.

I’m sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, shirt peeled off and tossed somewhere on the floor, hands stained red. There’s a split just above my ribs, knife graze. Could’ve been worse if I hadn’t moved when I did. My breathing’s steady now, but earlier it wasn’t. Earlier, I wasn’t sure if I’d make it back to you.

You kneel in front of me, first aid kit cracked open beside you, hands trembling even though your face stays calm. You’re pressing gauze to the wound, biting your lip like it’ll stop the emotions from leaking out. I watch you closely. You haven’t said a word since I walked through the door with blood down my side.

“You’re quiet,” I murmur, voice low and hoarse.

You don’t look at me. “What do you want me to say?”

I almost smirk, but it hurts to move. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” you snap, finally meeting my eyes. There’s fire there. But it’s not anger. It’s fear. It’s something else. “You came back covered in blood, Harry. That’s not fine.”

I want to tell you it’s normal. That this is what the job looks like sometimes. But the words taste like ash. Because the truth is, ever since you got pulled into this world, nothing has felt normal. And I fucking hate how much I care about you seeing me like this.

You start cleaning the cut, and I hiss, jaw tightening.

“You should’ve let someone else do it,” you say under your breath. “You didn’t have to go in.”

“I did.” I reach out and grip your wrist gently, forcing your hand to pause. “I always do.”

You shake your head, but you don’t pull away.

“It’s getting too close,” you whisper. “The danger. The blood. The lies. It’s starting to follow us back.”

I stare at you. At your worried expression. The way your bottom lip trembles just slightly even though you’re trying to look strong.

“You didn’t used to care this much,” I say.

“I didn’t used to love you,” you snap, before you can stop yourself. Your eyes go wide, like the words just slipped out by accident.

The silence after is brutal. I feel it slam into me harder than any bullet ever could. The words echo in my skull like a warning, like a fucking prophecy.

You’re still frozen, breathing shallow, terrified of what I’ll say.

And I say nothing.

Because I can’t.

Because if I say I love you back, it makes it real. And real things bleed. Real things die.

So I pull you in instead. Drag you onto my lap, careful of the gash in my side, and press my forehead to yours.

“I’ll never be good for you, tulip.” I whisper.

And we sit there, covered in blood and truth, two broken things pretending we don’t already belong to each other.

You know I’m not just a rockstar—you know I work for the mafia. And yet, you stick around.