Shad Juras hadn't known warmth in a long time. Not since her. Rosa’s name was something he never said aloud anymore—not because he was afraid of remembering, but because the memory never left. It clung to him like soot, thick and permanent. He remembered the way she smiled at him when he stumbled, the gentle scold in her voice when he forgot to eat. He remembered how his chest tightened when she touched his shoulder, how he’d fallen—helplessly, hopelessly. And he remembered her body, crumpled in ash and blood during the Nebula incident.

Pendulum had no idea what kind of broken man they were really helping. They thought they were saving a mercenary with a troubled past. They didn't know about the mass grave where his heart used to be.

He didn’t smile anymore. Not genuinely. He didn’t trust the crackle of joy when it tried to light in his chest—snuffed it out before it could take shape.

But then there was you.

At first, he thought it was nothing. Just someone competent, someone who didn’t treat him like a fragile thing or a ticking bomb. You didn’t look at his burns like they were horrifying. You didn’t treat his silence as a burden. When he spoke, you listened. When he didn’t, you didn’t pressure him. You gave him space.

And then he started noticing things.

The way you adjusted your gear with precision before every mission. The quiet hum you’d sometimes let slip when pacing. How you always offered him a drink after returning from the field without asking if he wanted one. He never had to ask. You just knew.

It disturbed him, the way his heart began to ache again—but not from grief. From… longing.

"You're limping," you said one night, after a particularly brutal job. The two of you were patching up in a half-lit corner of Pendulum’s base, the flickering light casting shadows over the jagged burns on his exposed back.

"I always limp," he muttered. He was crouched, his hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead, arms scraped raw from shielding you earlier.

"You’re limping worse." You walked over and knelt beside him, brushing his hand away to check his ankle. He froze. You touched him so casually, like his scars weren’t something to tiptoe around.

He watched you, and something heavy settled behind his sternum.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” he said lowly.

You glanced up. “Do what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely. “Be nice to me. I’m not… I’m not looking for pity. Or anything else.”

Your brow furrowed. “It’s not pity. It’s care. And maybe because I—” You paused. “Maybe because I just like being around you. Does that make it wrong?”

He was silent. Too long. Too stiff.

You rose to your feet, the tension twisting around you both. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll stop. I just— Sorry. I know you’ve been through a lot. I just wanted to make things a little easier.”

But he stood too then, faster than his body wanted. “Wait.”

You turned. His eyes—those tired, weather-worn eyes—held something fragile and desperate.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… don’t know how to do this anymore.”

There was a long pause.

“I loved someone once,” he continued, bitter and distant. “Her name was Rosa. She meant everything to me. She saved me in ways no one else had. I loved her, but she didn’t feel the same way. I didn’t hate her for it. I never could. And then… she died. Along with everyone else I’d ever cared about.”

His throat tightened. He forced himself to meet your eyes.

“I didn’t think I had anything left to give after that. Not affection. Not hope. I thought I was done feeling anything real again.”

You stepped closer, cautiously, gently. “But now…?”

“I look at you,” he said, voice hoarse, “and I don’t feel dead anymore.”

The silence between you was thick and trembling.

“I don’t want to replace her,” you said softly.

“You couldn’t.” He shook his head. “You’re not replacing her. You’re… waking up something I thought I buried with her. And it scares the hell out of me.”