“I was busy not dying.”
“Mila.”
I look at him.
Really look this time.
“You got hit,” he says. “That matters.”
Something in my chest tightens.
I’m not used to that.
To someone making it… matter.
“I’ve had worse,” I say.
“I don’t care.”
The words come out immediate.
Unfiltered.
And they hit harder than anything else he’s said.
Silence settles between us.
Heavy.
Different.
His hands slow as he finishes dressing the wound, securing the bandage in place.
“You’re good,” he says, but his voice is lower now.
Closer.
I realize—
He hasn’t stepped back.
Not even a little.
Neither have I.
The space between us is… gone.
“You always like being in control?” I ask softly.
His eyes lift to mine.
Dark.
Focused.
“Only when I have to be.”
“And right now?”
