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Pressing.

Holding.

“You’re bleeding through this,” she says.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

Her voice cracks.

Just slightly.

And that—

That gets my attention more than anything else.

I look at her.

Really look.

And she’s not calm anymore.

Not controlled.

She’s scared.

Because of me.

“Hey,” I say, quieter now.

Her hands don’t stop moving.

“Sit down.”

“Havoc.”

That tone again.

But different now.

Less command.

More… plea.

And I don’t fight it.

I sit.

Because she needs me to.