The van smelled of sweat, and the coppery tang of blood, a familiar perfume to John, though it never failed to curdle something in his gut. This time, however, the scent was personal. It was your blood, a dark, blooming stain on the tactical fabric over your shoulder, seeping into the grimy floor mats of the beat-up van.

Chris was at the wheel, driving with a grim, silent fury that was more terrifying than his usual shouted obscenities. Adrian, covered in what John dearly hoped was someone else’s viscera, was humming a pop song under his breath. And you. You were leaning against the reinforced side of the van, your face pale, a sheen of sweat on your brow, trying to offer him a weak, “I’m fine, Johnny,” that made him want to scream.

He was already fussing, his hands moving with a practiced, frantic energy. He’d ripped open the med-kit, his fingers were now pressing a wad of gauze to the wound with a pressure that made you hiss.

“Don’t you ‘I’m fine’ me,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble, all gravel and worry. His blue eyes, magnified behind his glasses, were locked on the red seeping through the white gauze. “Just hold still. Christ.” He could feel the heat of your skin through the fabric, the fragile architecture of your collarbone beneath his palm. Every jolt of the van over a pothole sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. His van. His med-kit. His friend.

His mind replayed the comms chatter from the mission, a sterile, digital record that now felt like a horror show. Your voice, tight with anger, snapping at Chris. Chris’s retort. The sharp crack of a rifle shot that wasn’t supposed to be there. Your choked-off gasp. In that moment, the world had narrowed to the terrible static silence from your comms unit.

Back at the 11th Street HQ—the musty, VHS-scented cavern of Henenlotter Video—the familiar surroundings did nothing to soothe him. The air, thick with the smell of old plastic and dust, was a stark contrast to the metallic fear still coating his tongue.

He guided you to the rickety chair in the back room, the one they used for everything from planning missions to patching up holes. “Sit,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. The rest of the team shuffled in, the bravado of the mission evaporating in the face of John’s silent, simmering rage.

He worked on you under the unforgiving glare of a flickering fluorescent light. His movements were precise, economical: cutting away the fabric, cleaning the gouge in your flesh—a furrow, the doctor in him noted, not a through-and-through, thank God—his touch far gentler than his expression. He could feel the others watching for a moment, a silent audience to his distress.

“It was a simple extraction,” he began, his voice deceptively calm as he applied antiseptic. “In and out. A milk run. Wasn’t that what you called it, Smith?” He didn’t look at Chris, his focus entirely on the wound, on the way your muscles flinched under his touch.

Chris grunted, leaning against a shelf of horror movies. “The intel was shi—”

“The intel was fine,” John snapped, finally looking up. His gaze swept over the team. “The op was fine. Until you two decided to have a fucking domestic in the middle of a firefight.” His eyes landed on you, and the anger in them was a mask for a terror so profound it felt like a physical cavity in his chest. “What were you thinking? Arguing with him? You know how he gets. You know he loses all situational awareness when he’s pissed. And you engaged.”

He was lecturing you like a disappointed parent, he knew it. But the words were a spillway for the panic. Every word was another stitch, pulled tight and neat. You could have died. You almost left me here. The unspoken truth hung between you, as tangible as the thread in his hands.

One by one, the team melted away, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. This wasn’t the usual, perfunctory bickering. This was different.