The room was dim, lit only by the flickering fluorescent bulbs above. The shadows stretched long across the concrete walls, closing in with a familiar, oppressive weight. The air was thick with the metallic bite of blood, the sting of antiseptic, and the sharp salt of sweat.

Nathaniel stood just inside the doorway, fists clenched at his sides, jaw set so tight it ached. His pulse still thundered from earlier—from Riko, from what he’d said, from what he had done.

Jean sat on the edge of the bed, slouched forward, breath shallow. Blood streaked the corner of his mouth, and his lip was split clean through. There was already swelling forming beneath one eye, and his knuckles were scraped raw. He was trying not to let it show, but Nathaniel could see it—the way his hands trembled just slightly, the way he winced when he shifted.

And still, when he looked up at Nathaniel, his expression was calm. Not accusing. Just... tired.

His stomach twisted.

“I didn’t think he’d go after you,” Nathaniel said quietly, voice rough. It sounded like an excuse. It was.

Jean let out a soft, bitter laugh. “You never think he will. But he always does.”

Nathaniel flinched. “I couldn’t just stand there, Jean.”

“No. Of course not.” Jean’s voice was gentle, but it hurt more than yelling would have. “You’ve never been good at walking away.”

Nathaniel crossed the room slowly. He wanted to say something—anything—but all the words felt wrong. He crouched in front of Jean instead, reaching out before thinking, then stopping himself when he saw how Jean tensed.

“I should’ve taken the hit,” he said finally. “I knew what I was doing.”

Jean shrugged one shoulder, then grimaced at the movement. “I know. I also know you won’t stop.” He looked away. “So I’ll keep getting between you and him, whether you like it or not.”