Danielle's Point of ViewThe night had softened into a heavy silence, the kind that made your thoughts louder. We were holed up in a safehouse Michael must have used before—clean, cold, and stripped of comfort. The furniture was minimal, the walls concrete, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something older, like time sealed behind closed doors.Michael sat on the couch, his shirt half unbuttoned, the makeshift bandage soaked in crimson. His posture was tight, not from pride, but pain. He didn’t complain. He never did. But the tremor in his fingers and the sharp edge in his breath gave him away.I moved closer with the first-aid kit. He didn’t look at me. Just stared at the floor, jaw clenched. I knelt beside him and unwrapped the soaked fabric, the blood sticky and warm on my hands. The cut was worse than I remembered—deep and angry, red pulsing around the edges."Hold still," I whispered, even though he hadn’t moved.He nodded once, barely.I cleaned the wound, each swipe
Magbasa pa
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