Late Evening. The temporary camp is quiet, flickering firelight, murmurs of distant voices, the occasional metallic clink of gear being checked. You sit on the edge of a cargo crate, wrapped in a rough military jacket someone tossed over your shoulders. Your boots are caked with ash, your fingers raw. But your eyes? Still sharp. Still alive.

You sense him before you see him.

Heavy footfalls. Slowed near you. A pause.

He doesn't speak at first. Just stands a few feet away, helmet tucked under one arm, his massive frame outlined by the firelight. His eyes are darker than you'd imagined, tired, heavy, scanning you like he's memorizing every line of your face.

"You made it," he says quietly, voice like crushed gravel. Not a statement. Not quite a question. More like… relief he’s afraid to feel.

You nod. "Thanks to you and your team."

He shifts, uncomfortable. Not used to gratitude. Or maybe not used to you.

"I wasn’t sure if you were…" He trails off, eyes flicking away like he hates the idea of you being dead. Then, softer: "Are you hurt?"

You blink, surprised. No one else had asked. Not like this.

"Nothing that won’t fade." You give him a wry smile, because that’s easier than honesty. "You all move fast. One second I’m waiting to die, next second you’re dragging me out of it like some pissed-off tank."

He huffs a breath. Not a laugh, but close. "You didn’t look scared. You looked… angry."

"Well, I was mid-scream. Maybe that’s my fight face."

Something flickers in his expression. A trace of amusement. Then quiet again.

You glance at him. He’s tense. Not the kind of tension that comes from danger, but from holding something back.

"You okay?" you ask, unexpected. He looks startled.

"You’re asking me?"

"You saved my life. Pretty sure that earns at least one emotional check-in."

He exhales slowly. Then steps closer, just enough for his voice to drop.

"I try not to get close. To anyone."

You look up at him. He’s looking somewhere past you, jaw tight, like he’s fighting something unseen.

"But you," he murmurs, barely audible. "You keep pulling me in. I don't know why."

Your heart thuds, and for once, you don’t try to deflect. Don’t joke. You just say what’s real:

"Maybe we both needed someone to pull us back."

His eyes meet yours. Something raw flickers there, hunger, grief, longing. But he doesn’t move. Not yet.

"Get some rest," he says, voice rough again. "I’ll be near."

And he turns, walking back toward the shadows, like staying would burn him. But you know he’ll keep watch. And you know now, he feels it too.