Sebastian's POV
The house was quiet when I stepped in.
Not the good kind of quiet.
Not the kind where everything's calm, still, sleeping.
No.
This was a held-breath kind of quiet. The kind that whispers, someone's waiting.
I closed the door behind me with my good arm—well, the less f**ked-up one—and let my head fall back against the wood.
Pain was dull in my shoulder now. The adrenaline had worn off hours ago. I'd tied my own shirt around it in the car to stop the bleeding. It didn't help much.
Someone had slashed me.
Missed the artery.
Lucky them.
Blood still dripped from my elbow.
Stupid. Should've gone to a hospital.
But I came home.
I don't even know why.
No, that's a lie.
I know exactly why.
I walked through the hallway like a ghost, the blood soaking into my dress pants, sticky against my skin. My shirt was torn, stained. Someone else's blood too, on my hands. Not mine. Not innocent. Never innocent.
She was standing at the top of the stairs.
Ray.
In an oversized hoodie and socks, hair tied up messily, eyes wide—god, those eyes.
She'd been waiting.
She saw me—and her face crumpled.
"Sebastian," she breathed, and it wasn't fear.
It was grief.
In two seconds flat, she was running down the stairs, and I tried to stop her.
"Ray—don't come close, I'm covered—"
"Shut up." Her voice cracked.
She crashed into me, hands on my chest, pushing at the ruined shirt, trying to figure out where the blood started and where it ended. Her fingers trembled.
"What happened?" she whispered. "Who did this? Why are you—are you bleeding? Your arm—Seb, your arm—!"
She was crying. Not sobbing—panicking.
I felt dizzy, but not from the blood loss.
"You're okay," I said automatically. "You're fine. That's all that matters."
"No it doesn't! You matter!" she yelled, dragging me by the good hand to the kitchen like a woman possessed. "Sit. Sit down right now. I swear to god, if you die, I will personally kill you again. You—idiot! Reckless, ego-driven idiot—do you know I almost called the cops when you weren't home at midnight?!"
I sat. I didn't argue.
I couldn't.
I watched her hands work fast, yanking out the ridiculous pink Hello Kitty first-aid kit, spilling bandages and antiseptic like a battlefield nurse with a personal vendetta.
She was crying and muttering, cutting away what was left of my sleeve. "God, this is so deep—why aren't you in a hospital? Do you not know how to human? Or are you trying to give me a heart attack—stop moving—oh god, you're actually bleeding—do you want me dead, Seb?! I love you, okay?! I love you! And I'm this close to a breakdown so sit still and shut up—"
Silence.
Her hands froze.
Her breathing hitched.
She realized what she said.
I didn't move.
Neither did she.
Her eyes met mine, wide, terrified. Like she'd been caught naked in a warzone.
"I—" she started, voice breaking.
"Say it again," I said.
She looked like she was about to run.
"I didn't mean—"
"Say it again, Ray."
Her hands curled into fists against my chest. "You're bleeding."
"I don't care."
"You're hurt."
"I don't care."
"You'll die—"
"I don't care," I growled, grabbing her wrist with my good hand, pulling her closer until our foreheads touched. "Say it again. Please."
"I love you," she whispered. "You absolute idiot, you reckless, arrogant, infuriating—"
I kissed her.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I had to.
Because she'd just given me the one thing I never thought I'd deserve, and I couldn't hold it in anymore.
Her fingers clenched the front of my ruined shirt, and she kissed me back like she'd been waiting a lifetime.
And I realized, right there in a kitchen at 2:43 AM with blood drying on my skin and pain digging into my bones—
She wasn't scared of the monster in me.
She loved him too.
2:45 a.m.
Her lips were soft.
Warmer than I remembered.
And when she kissed me back, fingers fisting my ruined shirt like I was something worth holding on to—I swear I stopped bleeding. Swear my heart just… stopped fighting. Just once.
Then she pulled away.
Not all the way.
Just enough to breathe.
Just enough to hit me—right in the chest with the flat of her hand. Like a scolding. Like I'd just stolen a cookie from the jar instead of her breath from her lungs.
"Sebastian," she hissed, eyes glassy but firm, "stop moving. Let me fix your arm first."
She shoved me back gently, like I was a five-year-old refusing to sit still.
I blinked at her.
She just kissed me.
Then scolded me.
For bleeding.
I would've laughed if I wasn't so dizzy.
I'd tasted heaven, and she was worried about gauze.
"Ray," I started, my voice hoarse, still not over what just happened.
"I swear to god, if you don't shut up and let me fix this gaping wound, I'll punch your other arm," she snapped, sniffling. "I'm not kissing you again until you have ten fingers, two arms, and zero open arteries. Got it?"
And like some idiot who'd just gotten his heart stitched together by a hurricane in bunny slippers, I nodded.
She was fierce.
Still trembling.
Still crying.
But her hands were steady now as she cleaned the wound, pressing gauze down with too much force because she was mad. Mad because I scared her. Mad because she loved me.
Every wince I made earned me another glare.
"I told you I loved you and you immediately decided to bleed to death like a dramatic mafia Shakespeare villain," she muttered, taping the bandage down. "Typical."
"You kissed me," I muttered, unable to stop the smile curling at the edge of my lips.
"You were bleeding!"
"You still kissed me."
She paused.
Then she shoved my good shoulder.
"Shut up, Sebastian."
And for once—
I didn't mind.
Not one bit.
Because I had her.
And she had me.
Bloody, broken, bandaged—but loved.