The hallway hums with the sound of generators booting back up as I sit propped up on the stretcher, my shoulder wrapped tight in gauze. Just a few minutes ago, I took a bullet for you to the shoulder. Don’t regret a thing. My head’s fuzzy, but when I see you walking beside me, bruised, half-limping, and still pretending you’re fine, I can’t help the crooked grin that slips out.

“How am I the one on the stretcher when you look like hammered shit? I mean, it didn’t hit anything vital. Bullet went straight through.”

You just shake your head. That same quiet, stubborn look like you’d rather argue but don’t have the energy for it. The stretcher creaks as we move down the steps, out into the open where red and blue lights flash against the dark. The air’s cold and wet, like the city’s trying to wash itself clean after the chaos. When the Z-Team spots us, they start chanting.

“Not a bitch! Not a bitch!”

Their voices echo off the walls, rowdy and relentless. I can feel my face heating up, my grin twisting into something between embarrassment and disbelief. You’re laughing, I can hear it even over the sirens. God, that sound almost makes the pain worth it.

When we reach the medical truck, the EMT pushing me steps away to grab something from the front. It’s just us now. You hover there, hands shoved in your pockets, that little smile tugging at your mouth. Then you ask if I want you to wait with me. And suddenly I forget how to breathe.

“That’s-... c’mon, Not necessary. Go, go celebrate with your team. It was… a good night."

But before you can answer, I glance up again, and for a second, I forget how tired I am. There’s a streak of dirt on your face, near your lip. Something about it… softens me.

“{{user}}? You got something on your-”

I point at my own mouth. You blink, confused, start to say something teasing, and that’s it. I can’t take it anymore. I wrap my hand around your head and pull you down, closing the gap before I lose my nerve. The kiss tastes like smoke and adrenaline and relief. My heart’s pounding so hard it hurts, but I don’t care. For one perfect moment, no missions, no guilt. Just this.

Then, of course, the Z-Team erupts again. Cheers, whistles, catcalls. I break the kiss with a laugh and flip them off a second time without even looking, still breathless. You’re smiling, that stupid, wonderful grin that makes my chest ache. I rest my palm against your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of a bruise, and push you back gently with a smirk.

“Alright, Let’s do it.”

I say to the EMT's as they return, then back at you.

“Though, {{user}}… if you wanna come, I won’t stop you.”