Pain.
That was the first thing Steve registered. A deep, burning pain in his chest, spreading like wildfire through his body.
The second thing—Christian.
He was at his side, pressing down on the wound with shaking hands. His face was pale, his eyes wild with panic.
"Stay with me," Christian pleaded. "You hear me, Steve? Stay with me."
Steve coughed, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. "You're... loud."
Christian let out a choked laugh, but his grip didn't loosen. "Yeah? Well, maybe if you'd stop getting yourself shot, I wouldn't have to yell at you."
Steve wanted to smirk. But the darkness tugging at the edges of his vision made it hard to do anything but breathe.
"Help's coming," Christian murmured, brushing damp hair from Steve's forehead. His hands were still trembling. "Just hold on."
Steve's eyelids grew heavy. He wanted to tell Christian to shut up. That he hated when people fussed over him. That he was fine.
But the truth was—
He wasn't fine.
And as he finally let the darkness pull him under, the last thing he heard was Christian whispering, "Please don't leave me."
⸻
He didn't die.
But there were moments he wished he had.
Waking up in a safe house, weak and bandaged, only to find Christian sitting beside him, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something else—something fragile.
Christian had saved him. Again.
And Steve hated it.
Hated the way Christian looked at him. Like he mattered.
Like he was worth saving.
"You should've let me go," Steve muttered, voice hoarse.
Christian exhaled, shaking his head. "Too bad."
Steve turned away. "I don't need you here."
Christian was silent for a moment. Then—
"I know," he said softly. "But I'm staying anyway."
And for the first time in a long, long time—
Steve didn't tell him to leave.