"Liam."
Her voice came out in a whisper that had almost nothing behind it, just his name arriving on whatever breath she had available, her lips barely moving.
He was already on one knee beside her, his hand finding her shoulder.
"You're okay," he said. "I'm here. You're okay."
He looked at her properly.
Her blonde hair was damp against her face and the floor, pressed flat by sweat, strands stuck across her cheek and her neck.
Her skin was flushed and wet, the shirt she was wearing, white and thin, clinging to everything it covered, the torn shoulder hanging loose, the fabric pulled tight across her chest and damp enough to show every outline beneath it.
Her legs were bare from mid-thigh down, her breathing shallow and fast, her chest rising and falling with the specific rhythm of someone whose body was working hard at something it should not be having to work hard at.
He looked above her head.
Two hearts. The third one dark and empty.
