“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into my hair.
The words were rough.
Broken.
“I’m so fucking sorry I wasn’t there.”
Tears burned down my cheeks.
At first they came silently.
Then the sobs broke free—choking, violent waves that tore through my chest.
I clutched him harder.
He didn’t flinch from my grief. He didn’t recoil from my blood.
He just held me tighter.
We disengaged from the hug slowly.
Reluctantly.
The separation felt wrong—as if pulling away meant risking losing each other again.
My arms dropped to my sides, suddenly heavy. Exhaustion flooded through me the moment his warmth stopped surrounding me.
That was when I saw it.
Dark, wet patches staining the front of Ruslan’s crisp black shirt.
They had formed where my body had pressed against him.
Urine. Sweat. Blood.
The sour odor of days spent trapped in my own filth clung to the fabric.
My stomach twisted violently.
I staggered back a half step.
“You’re... you’re covered in it,” I whispered, shame choking my voice. “I smell like death.”
The words hurt to say—but they were true.
Ruslan didn’t even glance down at his ruined shirt.
He didn’t care.
His single blue eye remained locked on me—intense, scanning, measuring.
Not disgusted. Not distant.
Focused.
“I don’t care,” he said quietly.
His tone wasn’t comforting. It was absolute.
