And every time she leaves, the emptiness cuts deeper than the bullet ever did.
It makes me furious.
She was right there—holding me through fever and pain, grounding me when I was stripped down to something raw and unguarded. She gave me something I didn’t dare name, and I destroyed it with my mouth. With fear. With my father’s voice slipping out of me like poison.
I hate myself for it.
Does she regret it?Seeing me like that—weak, vulnerable, and at her mercy. The thought twists sharp and ugly in my chest. Maybe this was all she needed. Proof that I’m not worth staying for. The second she saw the door open, she was ready to bolt.
After everything I’ve done for her. After almost dying for her.
Maybe I really am something people leave behind once they’re free.
Maybe I always was.
I tell myself this distance is necessary. That it’s protection—for both of us. That if I let her in, if I let myself believe in something more, I’ll only end up proving my father right.
Love makes you weak. Weakness gets you killed.
I repeat it like a mantra until the words go hollow, until they taste like ash.
I can’t stand it.
The silence presses in, whispering every failure back at me. Every flaw. Every reason I should have known better by now.
When she comes in again, quiet, clipped, and setting down fresh bandages, something in me snaps.
I can’t lie here like this anymore. Helpless. Exposed. Being cared for like I’m breakable.
I push myself up, ignoring the way pain detonates along my ribs. I refuse to look at her as I reach for the glass of water on the nightstand—even though it’s too far.
I won’t ask.
I’d rather bleed.
The roomtilts. Fire rips through my side, sharp and blinding, my breath hitching before I can stop it.
“Fuck.”
She’s on me instantly. “Are you fucking serious?” Violet snaps, already moving, her hands pressing into my ribs to steady me. Concern flashes across her face—real and unguarded—before frustration slides into place instead. Her touch is careful but firm as she checks the damage, her breath warm against my skin. I feel the tension in her fingers, the restraint she’s holding onto by sheer force of will. “You tore a stitch,” she mutters, and there’s a tremor in her voice she doesn’t quite hide. “Unbelievable. You are unbelievable.”
I smirk through the pain because it hurts less than admitting I needed her. “Guess you still care. Even if you don’t want to.”
She freezes. Her fingers still against my skin. When she speaks again, her voice is low and cold. “You don’t get to say that.”
The words land harder than the pain.
She moves fast after that, antiseptic burning as she cleans the wound. I hiss and grip the sheets, vision blurring for a moment.
Her touch softens just enough afterward to give her away. “You’re an idiot,” she mutters. “A reckless, stubborn idiot.”
“Been called worse,” I say.
Her eyes snap up, sharp and guarded. “Give it time.”
She wraps the bandage tight, methodical and precise. I don’t flinch. I watch her instead—the tight line of her mouth, the way she refuses to look at me unless she has to.
“Why are you even bothering?” I ask, regretting it the second the words leave my mouth.
