Mikhailis hesitated briefly, gaze fixed on the sleeping forms of his companions. He clenched his fists, nails biting sharply into his palms. "They'll be safer this way. We can't risk them getting hurt further."
He chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "I can handle their anger. I can't handle losing them."
"Shut it, Rodion," he sighed, though his voice carried no real heat. Rodion's dry humor, even at moments like this, provided an odd sort of comfort—a small, familiar annoyance that anchored him amidst the turmoil of his emotions.
Cerys, despite being unconscious, shifted slightly, letting out a quiet, strained breath as her face twitched, betraying lingering pain even in sleep. Mikhailis adjusted her position carefully, propping her gently to ease the pressure on her bruised ribs.
