Where Grief Ends and the Hunt Begins
He simply braced.
The magic ripped past him, close enough to sting, close enough to whisper what it would do if he let it.
He guided the torrent aside with measured control, absorbing the worst of it so it wouldn't devour them both. A thin line of red opened across his forearm, blood slipping down his skin — yet he stood there, grounded, unwavering.
A faint cut on his forearm bled slightly, but his stance didn't falter.
He steadied his breath, ignoring the sting, and watched Natasha like someone approaching the edge of a cliff.
"Natasha," he said, quieter this time — not scolding, not pleading, just reaching. He could feel the churn of her power beating through the air, every pulse of magic laced with fear and despair. "I feel it. I understand. But you can't destroy yourself here. You won't. Not now. Not like this."
