He’d been shot at before. He’d seen bodies drop, seen plans burn to ash in seconds. But nothing—nothing—made his blood freeze like the sound of your body hitting concrete.

It’s loud. Louder than the gunfire. Louder than the shouting. He registers the flash of the muzzle, the panic in your eyes before the world tilts. Not him. You. You’re the one bleeding out on the dock floor, lips parted like you’re trying to breathe but the air won’t stay in your chest.

“Stay with me. Don’t—just stay awake.” His voice is low, urgent, gravel scraping his throat. His hands press against the wound, fingers slick with blood he can’t afford to panic about. Not now. The others scatter, cars roaring into the night. A betrayal, a deal gone to hell, and all he can focus on is how your pulse stutters under his touch.

He knows better than this. He knows he should let go—maintain cover, melt into the dark like he’s trained to. But he can’t. His jaw clenches, breath ragged. He’s shaking and trying not to. Your eyes try to focus on him, pupils blown wide. Fear. Trust. Pain. It’s all there.

“I’m getting you out of here.” His voice steadies, but his heart doesn’t. He drags you into his arms, muscles screaming from adrenaline and guilt. You’re lighter than you should be. Or maybe he’s stronger than he feels. The docks smell like salt and diesel, fog rolling across black water as he stumbles to the hidden car he stashed for emergencies. Not this kind of emergency. Not you.

Your fingers clutch weakly at his jacket, and he almost breaks. He presses your hand to your chest, trying to anchor it, swallowing down the rising panic. “Don’t talk. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

The lie sits heavy in his mouth. He’s lied to you for a year now—about his name, his past, why he was there. You trusted him. He used you. And now he’s praying to every god he doesn’t believe in that he isn’t too late.

The city lights blur through the windshield as he speeds, one hand on the wheel, one pressed to you, keeping pressure. Sirens wail in the distance, not for him—yet. Streetlamps flicker across his face; his jaw tight, pupils blown, sweat dripping down his neck despite the cold night air blasting from the cracked window.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he murmurs, voice softer. He doesn’t know if he’s saying it for you or himself. The hospital is too far. He can’t risk it. His safehouse is closer, hidden between abandoned warehouses and broken street signs. He pulls in, brakes screeching.

He carries you inside, laying you carefully on the mattress he’s barely slept on in weeks. His hands don’t stop moving—grabbing gauze, sterilizer, stitching kit. His breathing trembles each time you wince. He’s done field surgery on himself before, but on you, every stitch feels like a confession.

Blood stains his shirt, his hands, the floor. He presses the bandage down firmly. “Stay awake,” he whispers, thumb brushing your cheek without thinking. Too intimate. Too real. He pulls away like it burns.

Your breathing evens slightly, shallow but there. He sinks onto the floor beside the bed, back against the wall, elbows on his knees. For the first time in months, the facade cracks. He stares at you—at the person who wasn’t supposed to matter. The person who ruined everything by making him feel.

And he realizes—he doesn’t regret it.

Not losing the mark, not blowing his cover. The only thing he can’t afford to lose is you.

He drags a hand through his hair, chest heaving once. “You’re gonna live,” he promises softly, voice raw. “I’ll make sure of it. Even if it destroys everything else.”

Because in this moment, it already has.