Romance

The safe house was everything Fadel had promised—a small, secluded place nestled away from the chaos, just far enough from the city for their enemies to lose their scent. The doctor was already waiting inside, an older man with graying hair and hands that moved as though they had been trained to save lives rather than take them.

Bison was barely conscious, but he was still breathing, which was the only thing that mattered in that moment. The doctor quickly took over, cutting through the layers of blood-soaked fabric with quick, practiced hands, his movements deliberate as he worked to stabilize Bison.

Style hadn't left Bison's side for a second. He was on his knees beside the cot, his fingers still tangled in Bison's hair, his eyes fixed on him like the world outside didn't exist. His expression was one of quiet desperation, but his hands were steady. He kept murmuring to Bison, low and urgent, words of reassurance that only he seemed to understand.

"Stay with me, baby," he whispered again, his voice cracked and hoarse. "You're not going anywhere. I'm right here."

Fadel was in the other room, sitting on a worn-out chair, taking stock of the situation. He winced as he dressed his own wounds, his focus unwavering even as he winced at the sting of alcohol on his torn skin. His shirt had been torn, blood staining the edges, but he'd insisted on tending to himself first before worrying about the others.

Kant was there, helping where he could. He'd taken a few hits too, but nothing that couldn't be managed. Still, he moved in and out of the room where Bison was being treated, checking on Fadel's condition as well.

It was when Fadel finally turned to him, his voice strained, that the moment shifted.

"Kant," Fadel began, his tone low, the pain in his voice nearly drowning out the concern. "I never asked before, but... what's the deal with Style and Bison? You've been around them long enough... I know there's something going on."

Kant paused, his hands momentarily still as he worked on Fadel's bandages. He could feel the weight of Fadel's question in the air, the curiosity that hovered between them, thick with unspoken history.

"I knew this was coming." Kant muttered; his voice slightly more tense than usual. His eyes met Fadel's, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something deeper, something hidden beneath his calm exterior.

Fadel raised an eyebrow, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of the bandage he was wrapping around Kant's side.

Kant took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He had never been good at talking about things like this, especially with Fadel. But there was no point in avoiding it any longer.

"It's not complicated," Kant began, his voice quieter now. "Style and Bison... they've been together for a while." He paused, as if finding the words felt unnatural. " You could say, it's more than just a thing between them—it's real. They've been real."

Fadel's gaze softened slightly as the realization hit him. He nodded, his lips pressing together in thought. "So that's why you always gave me a hard time. You were making sure I didn't mess things up for them."

Kant chuckled dryly, a hint of guilt flickering in his eyes. "Yeah. Pretty much. I knew they two had potential... and I wasn't about to let you mess it up by getting in the way. That's why I acted the way I did. I'm not sorry for it."

Fadel leaned back in the chair, his face unreadable for a moment. Then, after a long pause, he gave a small, rueful smile. "Guess I should thank you, then. Because, well... I don't know what would've happened if I hadn't gotten that push."

Kant's lips twitched, a smile coloring his face. "You're welcome."

The moment lingered in the air, the tension between them easing as they shared this rare, quiet understanding. Fadel's wounds were patched up, his body healing slowly but surely, but in that moment, it was the unspoken bond between them—the acknowledgment of each other's roles in their complex, dangerous world—that felt like the most significant healing of all.

Meanwhile, in the other room, Style hadn't moved. He was still holding onto Bison, his grip as tight as ever, his face a mask of exhaustion and raw emotion. He hadn't let go of him for even a second.

And Kant knew, without a doubt, that Style wouldn't be able to do it alone. Neither would Bison. They were a team, in a way only they understood. And now, it was their turn to heal.