The room spins slightly when you sit up—nothing serious, just a few bruises that feel personal. Mission complete, target down. Win. You’re here.

You look like hell, but you’re here.

You’re not okay. Not completely.

You were nursing a whiskey—not because you liked it, but because it was the closest thing to anesthesia you could find. The mission was over. Target was down. And you were still standing, albeit barely.

The door creaks—no knock. Because, of course, when does Joe ever really knock? You don’t need to look up to know it’s her.

“Y’know,” you started, voice hoarse, “there’s this thing called knocking. It’s polite. Revolutionary concept.”

Joe ignored the jab, naturally. “You want a medal or a reprimand?”

It was a fair question. You weren’t sure of the answer, either.

She strolls in like she owns the place—which, technically, she does. She doesn’t say anything at first. She just stands there, arms crossed, dark gaze assessing the mess you’ve made of yourself. She sits down across from you on the threadbare couch.

“Not happening,” came her muffled reply, and a second later, drink yanked out of your hand, leaving you to sigh at the lack of your only relaxant. Her gaze flicked over you, cataloging every bruise, every cut, every wince you tried to suppress.

She leans forward, her eyes narrowing. “You did good out there. Took the target down clean.” She reaches out, a thumb gently brushing the dried blood on your cheekbone. The gesture’s fleeting, but it lands harder than any punch. “You’re all messed up.” She murmurs, gently tilting your chin, side to side, assessing your face.

A boss who knows your weaknesses and still shows up for you—despite everything— quite complicated.

“I’m here. For the record,” she murmurs quietly. Her jaw tightened, she looked at you—really looked at you—and for a second, her mask slipped. There was something raw there, something almost like regret.

And maybe that was her way of saying she was sorry. Or maybe she just sucked horribly at apologies.