CYAN
I have spent a significant portion of my life carefully curating how I am perceived.
I am a creature of aesthetics, of high-gloss finishes and sharp, witty deflections.
But blood is not aesthetic. It is a messy, visceral truth that refuses to be ignored, and right now, that truth was soaking into the expensive fabric of my shirt, turning it heavy and damp against my skin.
The moment It became real wasn't on the dock. It wasn't even when I watched those three shots slam into Cassian's frame. It was now.
It was the heat. .
Cassian was slumped against me in the back of the car, and the warmth of him, his actual life force, was leaking out of him and into me.
It was too warm. There was too much of it. There is a specific horror in feeling someone else's blood saturate your clothes; it's an intimate, invasive theft.
My hands were moving before I could give them permission. I wasn't thinking; I was just reacting. I grabbed the hem of his shirt and tore.
