He mutters something I don’t catch, but lets me peel the shirt away. His skin is pale beneath the blood, muscles tense under my hands, and the wound is angry and red, the bullet just underthe surface. Not life-threatening, not yet, but it’ll be bad if it gets infected.
I clean it with water and antiseptic, fingers trembling. I’ve done field work before, patched up cuts, dealt with frostbite. This is different. This is him. Cassian. The man who watches the world like it’s always about to betray him. The man who pulled me from snow and silence and dragged me into something I don’t understand but already feel deeper than I want to admit.
His breath hisses through his teeth as I press gauze to the wound.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m trying.”
“You’re doing fine.”
It’s the softest I’ve ever heard him speak. I glance up, and he’s watching me with something I can’t name. Not affection. Not warmth. Something rawer. Hungrier. Like he’s caught between pushing me away and pulling me in.
I press harder. “You heal fast, don’t you?”
He nods once, jaw tight. “Faster than you. Not invincible.”
“Still bleeding,” I murmur, grabbing a pair of tweezers. “And still stubborn.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. The way his shoulders stay stiff, the way he watches the door even while I work on him—it tells me everything. He’s not afraid of pain. He’s afraid of what’s coming next.
I find the bullet and pull it out clean. He doesn’t flinch, but his hands curl into fists.
When I wrap the bandage around his ribs, his hand brushes mine. Just for a second. Just long enough for the fire to flicker hotter.
I glance up again. Our faces are too close.
The firelight dances in his eyes, and suddenly the silence feels charged, like the air before a storm.
I should look away. Should say something light, something deflective, something safe.
But I don’t. Neither does he.
My hand settles on his chest, over the beat of his heart, slow and steady and somehow louder than anything else in the room.
I lean in. Not all the way. Just close enough that I could kiss him if I wanted to.
God, I want to.
But he turns his head. Just slightly. Just enough to break the line between us.
His voice is low, rough, and not quite steady. “You don’t know what I am.”
It guts me.
Not because I’m hurt, but because I can hear it, how much he believes it. How deep the shame sits in him, carved under every scar.
I stay still for a moment, then ease back, hand dropping to my lap. “Maybe I don’t. But I know what you’re not.”
He doesn’t look at me. His jaw flexes, and his eyes stay locked on the flames.
“You’re not alone anymore,” I say softly.
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t move away either.
Outside, the dogs have gone quiet. The night presses in, thick with things unspoken. And beside the fire, I stay close.
Even if he won’t let me kiss him, not yet, I’ll still be here when the silence lifts.
I’m not going anywhere.
