Will

You met secretly. He was a shadow of the city, with hard hands and a cold gaze that softened only for you. You were the girl who couldn't stand mirrors. Every morning, you covered them with paper because seeing your reflection was unbearable. You wore loose clothes, even in summer. You said, "If I disappear, no one will notice." He clenched his jaw every time he heard it.

The night his enemies tracked you down to get to him, you stood in an empty warehouse, your back pressed against a cold pipe. Its leader held a knife to your throat and laughed, "Look at the cheap, pathetic woman he picked. Ugly. Was that really worth dying for?"

You closed your eyes and thought, "He's right. I'm not even worth a bullet."

But the shots rang out before you could finish that thought.

He burst in alone, unarmored, without a plan. He grabbed you and shielded you with his body as a burst of gunfire ripped through the room. Bullets entered his side—two, three. You felt his blood, warm and sticky, covering your hands.

He fell, but didn't let go of you. His eyes were already clouding over, but he still held your face in his hands—the place where you hated every mole, every flaw. You screamed at him not to waste his last strength on you, that you weren't worth it, that he should have saved himself.

He just grinned with bloody lips.

— Do you hear that? I just took bullets for a man who can't see himself in the mirror. You're not "unnecessary." I need you so much that I traded your breath for my own. If you ever want to die again... remember: I've already paid for your life. Completely. In its entirety. Even those parts you hate so much—they're my favorites.