His eyes stay locked on mine, soft and tired and cracked open in a way I’ve never seen, something raw spilling through the armor he wears like skin.
“You shouldn’t have been there,” he murmurs, the words heavy and slow, like each one hurts more than the bullet did, like speaking is just another kind of bleeding.
“You shouldn’t have gotten in front of a gun for me,” I whisper back, because I can’t say it loudly, not when the truth of it burns through my throat, not when the memory of him stepping into the line of fire is still replaying behind my eyes, because the idea of him not being here—of him not breathing right now—makes something cold and unbearable twist deep inside my chest. His lips twitch then, the ghost of a smile.
I clean the wound carefully, wiping away the blood that keeps threatening to well up again, watching the muscles in his arm jump under the touch, and I stitch him with hands that somehow stay steady even though my heart is racing so fast itfeels like it’s vibrating through my ribs, threading the needle through his torn skin while he watches me with that impossibly focused stare.
I wrap his shoulder, check the rest of him for injuries, smooth the bandage into place with trembling fingers until I’m sure it won’t shift or reopen or tear wider the second he moves, and when I finally lean back, breath shaking, his breathing has eased, the rigid tension in his jaw loosening little by little, the darkness in his eyes softening into something quieter.
And for a moment that steals the breath right out of me, he looks… human, not the man who killed three people tonight, which is something I never expected to see from him. He sinks back against the pillows, exhaustion pulling at him, and for the first time tonight, I see him as someone who’s been carrying too much for too long.
I sit beside him on the bed.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He doesn’t answer at first. Then?—
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, eyes half-closed but still watching me.
“So are you,” I whisper.
A knock echoes through the room before he can respond.
I tense, but Artyom’s voice softens. “It’s Misha. Let him in.”
I open the door, and Mikhail steps inside, eyes going straight to his brother, the casual smirk he always wears wiped clean from his face. There’s a heaviness there, a seriousness I’ve never seen before.
“What the hell happened?” he asks quietly.
I explain in a low voice while he listens, jaw clenching and unclenching, hands curling into fists at his sides. When I finish, he nods once and moves past me, standing beside the bed.
“You did good,” he murmurs to Artyom.
Artyom rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”
Mikhail glances at me, something soft slipping through his expression. “And you—you handled it.”
It hits deeper than it should.
Mikhail sits with me for a while, quieter than I’ve ever seen him, his elbows resting on his knees as he watches his brother doze, and after a long moment he glances at me, his voice low enough that it doesn’t disturb the room.
“What you did… it’s impressive, you know,” he says, and the words are simple but they land heavier than they should.
“I didn’t do anything,” I whisper back, adjusting the blanket over Artyom’s chest.
“You kept him alive long enough to get here,” Mikhail replies, shrugging like it’s obvious, like this isn’t the first time he’s dragged Artyom out of a mess. “That counts.”
I swallow, staring at Artyom’s face, softer now that the pain has finally settled. “He shouldn’t have gotten shot because of me.”
Mikhail huffs a quiet, tired breath. “He would’ve done it for anyone he gave a damn about.”
“Does he… give a damn?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Mikhail’s mouth pulls into the faintest, knowing smile. “You’re here, aren’t you? He hates needing people. But he doesn’t push you away.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I look down, and after a beat he stands, pats his brother’s good shoulder gently, and gives me a small nod—almost respectful, almost grateful—before murmuring, “Call me if he gets worse,” and slipping quietly out the door, leaving the room warmer and smaller and so much more intimate than before.
Artyom is still asleep, his breathing deep and steady, his face slack with exhaustion. I stay beside him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, tracing the lines of tension still etched into his brow, the faint twitch of his jaw every time he exhales, as if evensleep isn’t strong enough to smooth out the knots life has tied inside him.
