Fluorescent lights buzzed above you, too white, too loud. A needle tugged out of your arm as the medic gave you a dry nod.

“You should be resting.”

You shrugged. “I was. Then Ghost started yelling at his IV bag and I figured death might be quieter.”

From the corner of the room, Ghost shot you a look. “It wasn’t drip-feeding right.”

Price was seated next to your bed, arms crossed, eyes sharper than usual. His cap was gone—left behind somewhere in the rubble, probably—and his temple was taped where the blast had clipped him. He hadn’t said much since they pulled you out.

Now, he leaned forward, voice low. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You looked him dead in the eye. “I wasn’t.”

Soap barked a laugh from his cot across the room, where he had one leg propped up and ice melting into a towel. “They admit it. World’s ending.”

Gaz rolled in with a tray—two cups of tea, a protein bar, and a snack-sized bag of some knockoff crisps. “Didn’t want to steal your thunder,” he said casually, handing you the bar. “But I also didn’t pull two civilians out of a crumbling deathtrap with just my torso.”

You took the bar. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he grinned, settling on the edge of your bed in socked feet and a hoodie two sizes too big. “How’s your back?”

“Feels like I got hit by a truck. Twice.”

Ghost muttered, “You did, technically. A building counts.”

Soap pointed a finger at you with mock offense. “And you still managed to look better than me. How’s that fair?”

“Genetics.”

“Rude.”

Price rubbed the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath about reckless behavior and headaches with names. Then he looked up.

“Listen,” he said, and the room went still. “You scared the shit out of us. All of us. Next time a structure comes down, don’t run in unless someone’s behind you.”

“…Got it.”

Soap added, quieter, “You did good, though.”

Ghost chimed in with his dry edge, “Almost like you care, Johnny.”

“Shut up.”

You smiled faintly, letting your head tilt back against the pillow. Gaz handed you the tea, warm between your hands.

“You’re lucky,” he said.

“I know.”

“Not talking about surviving.” He glanced toward the doorway. “That mom? And her kid? They’re still here. Asked for your name.”

Soap chimed in, “Told her it was ‘absolute idiot who doesn’t know the meaning of danger,’ but I don’t think she bought it.”

You shook your head slowly. “They okay?”

“Because of you?” Gaz nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence settled for a moment. Price looked over all of you, battle-worn and bandaged.

“We’re not just soldiers,” he said softly. “We’re each other’s insurance. That means next time, you tell someone where the hell you’re going.”

You gave a nod. It wasn’t just guilt. It was the weight of being seen—and still chosen.

Soap stood up and cracked his back, wincing. “Right. Who’s gonna help me steal some pudding from the mess?”

Ghost, deadpan: “You’re not even cleared to walk.”

“Didn’t stop them,” Soap gestured to you, “from lifting a whole damn beam.”

Gaz smiled and looked to you. “You in?”

You nodded, slow but certain. “Only if I get the chocolate kind.”

“Done.”

And just like that, even with bruises on your ribs and your hands wrapped in gauze, you were whole again.

Because you weren’t alone.

Not here.

Not ever.