Kant

Everything hurt.

My side burned like hell, every jolt of movement sending a fresh wave of pain tearing through me. My legs felt weak, but Fadel's grip was iron-tight, dragging me down the fire escape with a force that didn't give me room to stop, to think, to collapse.

"Keep moving," he gritted out, voice sharp but steady.

Like I had a damn choice.

The metal steps groaned beneath us as we descended, his arm locked around me, half carrying, half shoving me downward. I barely felt the cold wind against my face, too focused on the wet warmth spreading across my ribs. My breath was uneven, but I forced my legs to keep working. If I slowed us down, we were dead.

A bullet struck the railing above, sending sparks flying.

Shit. They weren't letting up.

Fadel cursed under his breath, shifting his grip, moving faster. The last step came too quickly-I stumbled, knees almost giving out-but he didn't let me fall. He pushed me forward, into the alley, into the thick shadows swallowing the space between two buildings.

I hit the brick wall hard, gritting my teeth as the impact rattled through me. My head spun, my lungs fought to keep up, but I forced my eyes to stay open. Fadel was scanning the alley, gun raised, his body tense like a spring coiled too tight.

"Still with me?" he muttered, flicking a glance at me.

I let out a short, breathless laugh, though it came out more like a rasp. "Depends. Are we dead yet?"

He rolled his eyes, but something flickered in them-something sharp, unreadable. "Not yet. But they're closing in."

I swallowed, shifting against the wall, pressing a hand to my side. It came away slick with blood. "Great. Then what's the plan, genius?"

Fadel exhaled, glancing back toward the fire escape, toward the rooftops where our hunters were surely repositioning. He clicked his tongue, weighing something in his mind. Then, he turned back to me, jaw set.

"We need to split up."

I stiffened. "That's a shit idea."

"It's the only way." He moved fast, grabbing my wrist and pressing something cold and metallic into my palm. A spare gun. "You head toward the underpass. I'll draw them away."

I shook my head immediately. "No. Not happening."

His eyes narrowed. "Kant-"

"No." I pushed off the wall, gritting against the pain, stepping closer until I was practically in his face. "I didn't take a damn bullet just for you to throw yourself into another one."

His jaw clenched. A silent argument. A battle of wills.

Then, the distant crunch of footsteps.

We both turned, listening. The shadows were shifting, moving. Time was up.

Fadel cursed under his breath, then, before I could react, his fingers curled into my collar, dragging me forward. I barely had time to register the motion before his forehead knocked against mine-just for a second, a rough, fleeting touch that was something between frustration and something else entirely.

"Then stay close," he muttered.

And then we ran.

The motel was the kind of place no one asked questions. Dimly lit, walls stained with time and bad decisions, the kind of bed you didn't want to think too hard about. But it was shelter. It was safe-for now.

Fadel half-dragged, half-shoved me inside, kicking the door shut behind us. The lock clicked, and the world outside fell away, leaving only the sound of our breath-his steady, mine ragged.

"Sit," he ordered, pushing me toward the edge of the bed.

I sank down, wincing as the movement sent fresh fire through my ribs. My shirt was soaked with blood, sticking to my skin, and the adrenaline that had kept me moving was starting to wear off. I wasn't sure if the chill running through me was from the wound or something else entirely.

Fadel was already moving. He tossed his gun onto the nightstand, peeled off his jacket, then pulled a first aid kit he'd grabbed on the way in. Efficient. Focused. Like this was just another job. But I caught the flicker of something beneath the surface-a tension in his jaw, the way his hands flexed before reaching for me.

He knelt between my legs, yanking my shirt up with no hesitation. The fabric stuck for a second before peeling away, and I bit down a hiss as cool air hit raw, bloodied skin.

His fingers brushed my stomach, firm, steady. Assessing.

"This is gonna hurt," he muttered.

"No shit," I rasped.

He shot me a look but didn't argue. Instead, he poured disinfectant over a rag and pressed it to the wound. I sucked in a sharp breath, every muscle in my body locking up. The sting burned deep, sharp and relentless.

Fadel didn't pull away. He stayed close, the warmth of his body cutting through the chill in mine. His breath was slow, controlled, but I could feel it, just there, ghosting over my skin. His fingers, calloused and sure, smoothed over my side as he worked-too careful for someone who claimed not to care.

"Gotta stitch it," he murmured, voice lower now, rougher.

I nodded, swallowing hard, my pulse thrumming too fast. Not just from the pain.

He threaded the needle, his knuckles grazing my ribs as he positioned himself closer. The room felt smaller. Warmer.

"You don't have to-"

"Shut up." His voice was quiet, but firm. His fingers pressed against my skin, holding me steady. "You took a bullet for me. You don't get to act tough about this."

I let out a breathless chuckle, though it was weaker than I wanted it to be. "Didn't do it for you. Just had a death wish."

He didn't laugh.

Instead, his gaze flickered up to mine-just for a second, but long enough. Long enough for me to feel the weight of it. The heat in it.

Then, without another word, he dipped his head and started stitching.

Each tug of the needle sent a fresh wave of pain, but it wasn't the only thing I felt. His fingers on my skin, the slow drag of his breath against my stomach, the way he lingered just a little too close-like he wasn't sure if he was putting me back together or unraveling something else entirely.

And the worst part?

I wasn't sure either.

Fadel finished the last stitch, tying it off with a sharp tug before cutting the thread. The pain still throbbed through me, deep and aching, but it was manageable now-eclipsed by something heavier in the air between us.

He didn't move away immediately. His fingers lingered at my side, pressing lightly against the bandage, like he was making sure I wouldn't fall apart. His head was still tilted down, his breath warm against my skin. The room was quiet-too quiet.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. "You gonna stare at me all night or what?"

Fadel finally looked up, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, as if snapping back to himself, he pulled away, standing in one fluid motion. The warmth of him disappeared instantly, and I hated how I noticed.

"Try not to move too much," he muttered, tossing the bloody rag into the sink. "You'll tear the stitches."

I leaned back against the headboard, watching as he stripped off his own ruined shirt and tossed it aside. His skin was streaked with grime, a faint bruise blooming near his collarbone, but he didn't seem to care.

"You're a real charmer, you know that?" I mused, exhaustion tugging at the edges of my voice.

Fadel shot me a dry look. "And you're a pain in the ass."

I smirked. "Guess we're even."

He didn't answer, just ran a hand through his hair before sinking into the chair by the window. The gun was already back in his grip, his body angled toward the door. Always on edge. Always ready.

"You should sleep," he muttered, not looking at me.

I should. But even as my body ached for rest, my mind wouldn't stop turning. My side hurt like hell, the weight of the night pressing down on me, but the only thing I could focus on was him. The way his jaw was set, the tension still coiled in his shoulders.

I shifted slightly, ignoring the sting. "You're not gonna crash?"

Fadel scoffed under his breath. "Someone's gotta keep watch."

I studied him for a moment. The way his fingers flexed around the gun, like he was still wired from the chase, from the fight.

"Fadel."

He didn't respond.

"Hey," I tried again, quieter this time.

His eyes flicked to me, just for a second, and I almost wished they hadn't. Because there was something in them-something raw, something frayed.

"You're not alone in this," I said, softer than I meant to. "You don't have to be."

For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then, finally, he let out a breath. Not quite a sigh, but close.

"Go to sleep, Kant."

It wasn't an answer. But it wasn't nothing, either.

I closed my eyes, the exhaustion finally pulling me under.

And even though he never moved from that chair, I knew, somehow, that he wouldn't let anything happen to me.