Her eyes land on the bandages visible beneath my half-buttoned shirt. On the way I’m holding my ribs. On the shallow breaths I can’t quite hide.
“Kieran—”
“You shouldn’t be up.” My voice is too sharp. Too defensive. “You should be resting.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.
“You saved me,” she says.
The words crack something inside my chest.
I didn’t do it to earn gratitude. I did it because I would take a thousand hits before letting something touch her.
“I should have been faster,” I say quietly. “Should have shielded you better.”
“You stepped in front of me.”
“I failed you.”
“You protected me.”
I can’t look at her. Can’t hold the weight of what she’s saying.
Because she’s wrong.
She has to be wrong.
She steps closer.
Too close.
Her shadows follow—gentle, careful, curling around my legs like they’re checking on me too.
She reaches out, fingers hovering near the bandages.
I tense. Instinct. Centuries of silence. Centuries of putting armor over everything that hurt.
Then, slowly, my shoulders drop.
I let her touch me.
Her hand settles against the edge of the bandage, warm and steady.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“No.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. She knows I’m lying.
“Kieran.”
I exhale slowly. “Yes.”
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. Just stays close, her hand still resting against my ribs like she knows I need it.
“You didn’t fail me,” she says quietly. “You were there. That’s what matters.”
Something inside me shatters.
