Nobody on the battlefield escaped unscathed.

John stood in the middle of a tense battle zone, bullets whizzing past left and right, explosions detonating nearby. He was a hardened battle-tested veteran of many operations, but there was something different about this one. A sense of dread and danger loomed in the air, and as he raised his gun and took aim, he caught a glimpse of you running towards him. He told you to stay back—but he had no time to properly understand what was happening until you pushed him away, your body falling to the ground.

You had taken the bullet for him.

John was quick to gather his bearings, swiftly taking out the enemy solider that shot you. His body was moving before he could think, falling to his knees by your side. His hands flew to your wound, the blood blooming through your uniform and seeping onto his hands. John willed his hands to stop shaking, slightly cursing to himself. He was a season-soldier. He had seen worse. He’d done even worse.

He would save you. He wouldn’t have more blood on his hands. Not this time. He wouldn’t.

“Keep listening to me, goddamnit,” he shouted, his voice laced with a shaky harshness and urgency, “You got no right dying here, you got that!” John didn’t hesitate, scooping you up in his strong arms and holding you close to your chest, making his way through the unstable battlefield for safety. And to get you some help.

“Damn fool,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “I should’ve known that you wouldn’t listen to me. But no way in bloody hell am I leavin’ your ass out here.”