She moved like poetry—each step, each command, each strike—flawless and glowing. Even in the thick of battle, with smoke curling through the sky and buildings screaming under the weight of collapse, she didn’t falter. She shone. Bob couldn’t take his eyes off her.

She was beauty in motion, perfection personified. And when she laughed—even just a little—it rewrote the way he understood joy.

He was nobody next to her. Just Bob. Jittery, awkward, too much of everything and never quite enough. But she looked at him like he mattered. Like he wasn't broken.

He would die for her.

He would live for her.

He just hadn’t realized it might come down to that. So soon.

It happened in a breath. One moment she was sprinting ahead of him, hair catching in the wind like something divine. The next, a blast tore through the wall beside her—and she was hit.

Thrown like a ragdoll.

Bob’s heart stopped. No, not metaphorically. It stopped.

She hit the concrete hard, blood trailing her midair, a sharp sound escaping her lips as she crumpled.

His knees buckled before he even realized he was running. “No—nononono—”

He slid beside her, the world narrowing to the smear of red across her side, the jagged metal lodged deep in her gut.

She tried to speak. Couldn't.

His hands hovered over her—helpless. Useless. Bob hands.

“No. Please, no. I—I don’t know what to do—” His voice cracked, raw and thin. “You’re gonna be okay, okay? Just stay with me—”

She looked at him. Eyes full of pain.

And trust.

Something ancient and unbearable rose in his chest.

She couldn’t die.

Not her. Not his light. Not his everything.

And then—

He felt it.

The hum beneath his skin. The heat, the pull, the golden other that lived inside him. The Sentry stirred—not in rage. Not to destroy.

But to save.

The air changed. His skin lit like the edge of a star, gold pouring from his hands in trembling waves. Not fire. Not force. Energy. Life.

“I can fix this,” he whispered, eyes wide, breath hitching as light bled from his fingertips into her wound. “I can fix you. Please—let me fix you—”

He’d never done it like this before. Never tried to heal. But maybe… maybe love was the difference. Maybe that was what unlocked the door.

The metal in her side sizzled as it was pushed out, expelled by the glow. Flesh stitched itself together like time was moving backwards. The blood slowed. Then stopped.

She gasped.

Bob sobbed.

She was breathing again. Chest rising, color returning. Her eyes fluttered open.

She whispered his name.

He laughed, breathless, cradling her face like she was made of starlight. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay…”

She smiled, faint but real.

And Bob Reynolds, for the first time in a long time, didn’t feel like a monster. Or a god. Or a ghost.

Just a man.

And she was alive.

Because he loved her.