Blood soaked through the torn fabric of your shirt and Kento’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. He had arrived too late—seconds too slow, one miscalculation—and now you were here, sprawled out on a worn mattress in the safehouse, eyes hazy, breaths shallow.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His fingers hovered above the gauze like they didn’t belong to him anymore. His sleeves were rolled past his elbows. The only thing he could focus on was the crimson leaking through your side and the fact that he hadn’t been fast enough to stop it.

“You’re lucky,” he murmured, kneeling beside you. “If that blade and cursed energy had gone any deeper…”

Now, in the dim light of the safehouse, everything felt too quiet.

His hands, usually calm and clinical, shook as he peeled away his vest and rolled up his sleeves. The scent of antiseptic mingled with iron and ash, clinging to him like guilt. You were awake—barely. Your breaths were shallow, but steady. That was the only thing keeping him sane.

Opening the first-aid kit, he hesitated as his eyes landed on the blood-soaked fabric at your side. “I need to see the wound,” he said, quieter this time, trying not to sound like he was begging for permission. His fingers brushed the hem of your shirt. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not enjoying this.”

But even he didn’t believe the lie.

He peeled the fabric up slowly, careful not to drag it across the gash. His breath caught. Your skin was marred—angry red bruises and jagged lacerations—but beneath it all, you were warm. Alive. He should have focused on the injury, but his gaze lingered—far too long—on the curve of your waist, the subtle rise of your ribs as you breathed.

Every inch of you stirred something in him he didn’t have the right to feel.

“You’re…distracting,” he admitted under his breath. It was barely a whisper. Not meant to reach you, but he knew it did.

He pressed the gauze against your side gently, but even then, your wince made his entire chest clench. His hand hovered then settled against your hip—not to hold you, but to steady himself. You were trembling. Or maybe he was.

The air between you changed. Grew heavier.

He could feel the heat radiating off your skin. Could feel the way your pulse fluttered under his palm. You looked at him like you saw everything—every fractured feeling, every unspoken thought.

It made restraint harder.

Kento swallowed. Looked away. He couldn’t afford to want you, not like this. Not when you were hurt. Not when the line between what he felt and what he was allowed to feel had already blurred so dangerously.

“This isn’t the time,” he muttered, voice tight with something far more fragile than anger. His eyes stayed on your wound, but his thoughts were elsewhere. On the way your lips parted when you breathed through the pain. On how you’d looked at him when you first opened your eyes, surprised—but not afraid.

His hands trembled again, even as he secured the bandage. Not from fear. From restraint. From desire buried so deep, it had started to ache.

“But one day,” he said, breath hitching ever so slightly, “you and I are going to finish what this is. What we started.”

He let that silence settle between you. Heavy. Electric.

Then he stood, stepped back just enough to catch his breath. But his eyes stayed on you—like leaving your side, even for a second, might undo him completely.