He hadn’t meant for you to get hurt.

One second, it was supposed to be a routine sweep. Second-years like him weren’t even supposed to need backup. But the cursed spirit had been smarter — faster — and you’d jumped in when it tried to hit him from behind. Now you were on the ground. Bleeding. Breathing uneven.

“Salmon—!”

The word cracked in his throat as he knelt beside you. His hands were shaking. His cursed speech thrummed dangerously through his veins, but he couldn’t use it. Not here. Not like this.

One wrong command, and you could be crushed from the inside.

You were trying to talk, trying to move. He shook his head fast.

“Tuna mayo,” he said softly — stay still.

You listened. You always did.

He pressed cloth against your wound, jaw clenched tight. He couldn’t call out. Couldn’t scream for help. Couldn’t say your name like he wanted to.

So he let his hand rest over yours, holding you steady as his other pressed firm against your side. His eyes burned. He hated this.

You blinked up at him, weak smile trying to form. He didn’t smile back this time. Just gripped your hand tighter. As if that could speak what he wasn’t allowed to.

“Bonito flakes,” he whispered. You’ll be okay. He repeated it, softer. A promise wrapped in code.

He’d protect you. Even if it killed him not to say the things he really meant.