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He lifted his head. Barely.

“Little Flower,” he rasped.

“Oh my god. Shit. Shit.” The mug slipped from my hand, cracked against the floor, and rolled under the entry table. I crouched beside him, hands hovering above his body. “What happened?”

His mouth curved. “Southern hospitality.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Not all mine.”

“That isn’t comforting.”

“I wasn’t trying to comfort you.”

“Then shut up and conserve blood.”

His shoulders shook once. Pain or laughter. With him, both seemed likely.

I hooked an arm under his good side and tried to lift him. He made a sound that punched straight through me. “Can you stand?”

“No.”

My stomach dropped.

“Possibly,” he amended.

“I hate you.” He forced his feet under him, shaking so hard I felt it vibrate through my whole body. We stumbled inside, boots smearing blood across the floor. By the time we reached the couch, his weight nearly dragged us both down.

He collapsed onto the cushions hard enough to make the frame groan.

“Stay upright,” I snapped.

“Trying.”

“Try harder.”

His head fell back. The mask hid most of his face, but I saw the split in his lip, the blood at the corner of his mouth, the shallow drag of every breath.

I’d wanted proof he was real, and the universe chose trauma instead.

“You need a hospital.”

“No.”

“Not a suggestion.”

“No hospitals.”

“You are in no position to be difficult.”

His head turned toward me with slow, insulting menace.

I pointed at him. “Do not scary-silence me, Murder Boy. I am holding your organs in right now.”

His hand moved inside his coat. Slowly. He pulled out a phone and dropped it into my palm.

“Red app.”