Pain.

That was the first thing she felt.

Not sharp, not unbearable — just a dull, aching throb, spreading through her body like a lingering echo of something worse.

Then came the warmth.

Familiar. Steady.

Him.

She was lying against something solid — no, someone. His arms, wrapped around her as if letting go wasn’t an option.

Her eyes fluttered open, the world coming into focus in pieces. The dim glow of an unfamiliar room. The scent of old wood and rain-soaked air. The faint sound of crackling fire.

And him.

Sitting beside her, gaze locked onto her face as if she might disappear the second he blinked.

“You’re awake.”

His voice was quiet, but heavy — like he was holding back a thousand things he wanted to say.

She swallowed, her throat dry. “That depends. Am I alive?”

His jaw clenched. “Barely.”

Her lips twitched in a weak attempt at a smirk. “Well, I’ll take ‘barely’ over ‘not at all’ any day.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even pretend to.

Instead, he just looked at her.

And there was something in his expression that made her chest tighten — a storm raging beneath the surface, fighting to break free.

She tried to sit up, but a sharp sting shot through her side, and she winced.

Immediately, he was there, his hands steadying her, his touch careful.

“Don’t,” he warned. “You need to rest.”

She exhaled shakily, leaning back against the pillows. “What… what happened?”

He was silent for a moment.

Then, finally — “You took the blade meant for me.”

Memories crashed back.

The fight.

The blade.

The way she had moved without thinking — because she couldn’t let him die.

She glanced down at herself, fingers brushing over the bandages wrapped around her side. “So, did I at least make it look cool?”

He didn’t answer.

She looked up at him again, only to find his gaze burning into her — dark, intense, unreadable.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered.

She blinked. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You could have died,” he snapped, frustration bleeding through his usually calm exterior. “Do you even realize how reckless that was?”

She frowned. “Reckless? You would’ve — “

“That doesn’t matter.” His voice was sharp, but there was something else beneath it. Something raw. “I’ve died before. In sixteen different lives, I’ve died a thousand different ways. But you — “

He cut himself off, his hands curling into fists.

“You weren’t supposed to be the one bleeding this time.”

She stared at him, heart pounding.

The silence between them stretched — thick, suffocating.

Until finally, she whispered, “You were willing to die for me, weren’t you?”

His breath hitched, but he said nothing.

“That’s why you fought so hard. That’s why you lost control.” She swallowed. “Because if I hadn’t stepped in, you would’ve let yourself — “

“Yes.”

The word came out low, almost a growl.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

“I would’ve,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I wouldn’t have regretted it.”

Her chest tightened. “Why?”

His jaw clenched. “Because losing you again — “ He exhaled shakily. “I wouldn’t survive it. Not in this life. Not ever.”

The weight of his words pressed against her, heavy and inescapable.

She had spent weeks, months, denying this.

Denying him.

Denying the past.

But here he was.

In front of her.

Choosing her.

Again.

Always.

And suddenly, the fight — the resistance, the doubt — all of it crumbled.

Because deep down, hadn’t she always known?

Hadn’t she always felt it?

This unshakable, impossible pull toward him.

Like gravity.

Like fate.

Like a story that refused to end.

She exhaled, her fingers trembling as she reached for his hand.

And for the first time — he didn’t pull away.

She laced her fingers through his, her grip weak but certain. “Then don’t leave me behind,” she murmured.

His eyes flickered — something breaking inside them.

And then, his fingers tightened around hers, his touch grounding her in ways she didn’t understand.

“I won’t,” he whispered. “Not in this life.”

Not ever.