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I ease off him slowly, rolling to the side. Ilya sits up, putting space between us. His jaw is set, and I can see that wall reconstructing itself brick by brick.

He slides off the bed, crossing the room with agitated steps. Then he comes back with a small medical kit and drops onto the edge of the bed beside me without a word.

His hands are shaking. He tries to hide it as he pulls out gauze and antiseptic, but I can see the tremor in his fingers when he reaches for my shirt. “Take it off,” he says, voice rough.

I raise a brow. “Demanding.”

“Just—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “I need to see it.”

I oblige, wincing as I work the fabric over my wounded shoulder and peel the ruined shirt away. The stab wound is bleeding, and the edges of the skin are already darkening with bruising.

Ilya looks at what he did to me, and I can see the guilt gathering in his eyes. I want to take his face between my hands and force the feeling out of his expression. There is nothing to be guilty for. Doesn’t he know that yet?

My boundaries have always been strangely nonexistent where he is concerned. I could build a fortress against the entire world and still leave the door unlocked for Ilya Solovyov. He could stab me a hundred times, and I’d still crawl to him if he just let me be near. If he wants something to feel guilty about, then he should feel it about chasing me away.

The antiseptic stings, but I don’t make a sound. I’m too busy watching him. He keeps his lower lip trapped between his teeth, and it makes me want to kiss his mouth.

When he finishes wrapping the gauze, my good hand catches his wrist mid-motion. He looks up, green eyes wide and questioning.

Then I pull, and I guide him down onto my lap.

He’s lighter than he should be. Has he not been eating? Alya said he has, but clearly not enough.

“What are you—”

I catch his mouth with mine before he can finish the sentence, swallowing whatever protest he was about to make.

I hold him in place. And he makes a frustrated sound into the kiss, but his mouth opens anyway.

I take the invitation and deepen it, tasting the sweetness of raspberry still on his tongue. He kisses back like he’s arguing with himself, pulling away even as he leans in.

I break the kiss slowly, dragging my mouth along his jaw, pressing a softer kiss to the corner of his lips, then his cheek. He shivers.

“Ilya,” I murmur against his temple.

He turns his head, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me again.

Then his gaze drifts past me to the clock on his bedside table. “You have to leave.”

I pull back just enough to see his face. “What?”

“You have to go.” He’s already trying to get up, hands pressing against my chest with real intent now. “Now.”

I tighten my arm around his waist, keeping him where he is. “I don’t want to.”

“I don’t care what you want.” His eyes flick to the clock again, then back to me, and there’s real anxiety building in them now. “You need to leave. Please.”

Please.

He doesn’t say please.

I look at him for a long moment, studying the panic creeping into his expression and the way he’s suddenly calculating exits in a way that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with something I don’t understand yet.

I don’t like it. Every selfish part of me wants to ignore the distance he’s asking for. But I can see panic beginning to gather behind his eyes, and suddenly what I want becomes irrelevant. I press my lips together, swallowing the protest already burning up my throat. Yielding to him feels like peeling my own fingers away one at a time. “Okay,” I say softly.

He blinks, surprised by the easy surrender.

“I’ll go.”