The storm hit faster than expected.

Wind howled through the trees, tearing branches like paper. Thunder cracked so close it rattled the ground beneath your feet. You and Bellamy barely made it to the abandoned bunker, slamming the hatch shut behind you as the sky split open.

Now you’re trapped.

The room is small, damp. A single flickering light buzzes overhead. The walls sweat cold. You sit on opposite sides, soaked to the bone, clothes clinging, hearts still pounding from the sprint.

You can feel him staring.

Of course he is.

“You really had to run toward the gunfire, didn’t you?” His voice cuts through the silence, low and sharp.

You don’t look at him. “I didn’t know you were following me.”

Bellamy lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Following you? I was covering you.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“Yeah, well, you were going to get yourself killed.”

He stands too fast, pacing now, the tension in him crackling louder than the thunder outside. “You don’t get it. Every time you pull that reckless crap, someone ends up paying the price. Usually me.”

You rise to your feet, matching his fire. “I didn’t ask you to play hero.”

“I’m not playing.” His voice drops, tight. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

Silence crashes between you—thick, searing. Every breath loud against the storm.

His chest heaves. So does yours.

You should turn away. Let it drop.

But then he’s in front of you. Close. Close enough that the heat radiating off his skin cuts straight through the cold in your clothes.

“You drive me insane,” he mutters. “You never listen. You fight me at every turn.”

His jaw flexes. His eyes flicker—just for a second—to your lips.

“Murphy’s mess at camp. Acid rain. Rabid animals. Grounders trying to kill us every other day—and somehow you are still the biggest pain in my ass.”