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And instead of running as far from me as possible, she’s here. In this blood-soaked bedroom. Crying over the man who betrayed her.

I try to speak, but what comes out is a gurgle. Blood in my throat. I force myself to swallow, to clear the passage enough to form words. My jaw clicks and grinds, might be broken, but I push through because if I’m going to die here then I need to say this first.

“June…” The word scrapes out like sandpaper on raw flesh. “You were right.”

June goes still. Her hands, which were fluttering uselessly over my chest, freeze. She stares at me with those hazel eyes that I first fell in love with years ago.

“You were right about everything,” I manage. Each word costs me. Each syllable is a negotiation between my brain and my destroyed body. “It was a trap. I was too fucking stupid and arrogant to see it. Or I saw it and I just... I thought I could control it. Thought I knew better than you.”

She’s shaking her head, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face. “Dylan, don’t. Save your strength. Bishop’s coming.”

“No.” I try to lift my hand, the one that isn’t bent wrong, and she catches it. Her fingers are warm and alive, and everything I don’t deserve. “I need to say this. In case I don’t… in case this is it.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

But we both know. We both see the amount of blood spreading across this floor. We both hear the way my breathing sounds like I’m drowning.

“I should have listened to you,” I say. “About testifying. About doing the right thing. You wanted to be brave and responsible, and I was so fucking terrified of losing you I tried to control you instead. Just like I used to.”

Her face crumples. Fresh tears spill over, and I hate that I’m the reason for them. Hate that even now, dying on this floor, I’m still causing her pain.

“I was just the same controlling asshole wearing a better mask. Making you think I’d changed when really I was just finding new ways to manipulate you. The roses, the submission, letting you think you had power… it was all just another way to keep you under my thumb.”

“Dylan, just rest.”

“I tied you to that bed and left you to die, June. I chose what I wanted over what you needed, and I called it love.” My voice breaks on the last word. “You didn’t have to come for me. You could have left me here. But you came anyway. You were brave enough to do the right thing even though I hurt you. Even though I was too much of a coward to do the same for you. You were right. I was wrong.”

She’s fully crying now, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Her hand grips mine so tightly I can feel the bones grinding together, but I don’t care. The pain is good. The pain means I’m still here, still able to feel her touch.

I’ll be a lucky man if her face is the last thing I see before I die.

“I love you,” I say. Each word is a gift I don’t deserve to give. “I loved you wrong before. I loved you as if you were something to own instead of someone to partner with. But I love you. And if I die here, I want you to know that I’m grateful you came. I’m grateful you’re here. I don’t deserve it, and I’m sorry for everything I did, but I’m so fucking grateful.”

June leans down until her forehead touches mine, careful to avoid the worst of the damage. Her breath is hot against my face, ragged from crying. When she speaks, her voice is thick with emotion but also with something harder. Something like steel.

“I came because it was the right thing to do. That’s who I want to be. Someone who does hard things even when they hurt. Someone who doesn’t abandon people just because they’ve hurt me.” She pulls back enough to look me in the eye, and what I see there isn’t forgiveness. It’s complicated and messy, and real. “But I’m furious with you, Dylan. For what you did to me. For not listening. For getting yourself into this situation because you thought you knew better. I haven’t forgiven you. I don’t know if I can.”

“I know.” And I do. Love doesn’t erase betrayal. And doing the right thing doesn’t mean pretending the wrong thing never happened.

“But I’m here,” she says. “Because New June doesn’t run from hard things. Even when those hard things include you.”

Footsteps pound down the hallway. Bishop’s voice, clinical and controlled, cuts through the moment. “Move aside. I need to assess the damage.”

June shifts but doesn’t let go of my hand. I feel Bishop’s hands on me, efficient and practiced, cataloging injuries with the detachment of someone who’s done this too many times. His face appears in my limited field of vision, those pale blue eyes scanning me with unsettling intensity.

“Broken ribs, probably a punctured lung given the breathing sounds. Significant facial trauma. This arm is definitely broken, might need surgery. Multiple lacerations. Possible internal bleeding.” He’s talking to someone else — Evan, maybe, or one of the others. “We need to move him now. He’s stable enough to transport, but that won’t last. June, I need you to step back.”

“No.” Her voice is firm. “I’m staying with him.”

“You’ll be in the way.”

“She stays,” I say, my voice a croak.

“I’m staying with him.” Harder this time. “I’ll ride in the truck. I won’t get in your way. But I’m not leaving him.”

I love her. God, I love her so much it hurts worse than my broken ribs.

They lift me and the world goes white with pain. Every jostling movement sends fresh waves of agony crashing through my body. I try not to scream, but something between a groan and a whimper escapes anyway. Someone‘s hands are under my shoulders, someone else has my legs. The hallway passes in a blur of broken plaster and bullet holes. Then daylight, harsh and unforgiving, and the cool morning air on my destroyed face.