Blood's seeping through the cracks of her fingers, running over her knuckles and the stickiness of it doesn't dissipate, doesn't fucking dry.

"Should've told me sooner," Her breath's all hitched up in her throat; it's hard to remember to breathe, hunched over him across the hard plastic of the e-brake-- the seatbelts and day old soda cans-- in a shot-up car parked on the curb of a busy storefront. People are staring. The flicker of lights bounces off a barely functioning rear view mirror.

"Can't change the damn thing when I'm keeping you alive, can I."