The bar was almost empty—just the hum of neon lights and the soft clink of glasses being washed behind the counter. You sat across from Emilia Harcourt in a corner booth, both of you off-duty for once. She nursed a drink, not touching it much, just turning the glass between her fingers like it gave her something to do.

You could tell something was on her mind from the moment you walked in—her shoulders were tense, her jaw tight, eyes sharper than usual.

“So,” you started gently, “you’ve been quiet tonight.”

Harcourt shot you a look. “I’m always quiet.”

“Emilia, you’re quiet. This is… different.”

She inhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the scratched tabletop. For a moment, she said nothing. Then:

“Peacemaker.”

You blinked. “What about him?”

She scoffed—not mocking, but tired. Really tired. “He’s an idiot. But you know that.”

You smiled faintly. “Everyone knows that.”

“Yeah.” She swallowed hard. “But he’s… my idiot, I guess.”

You leaned forward, sensing she wasn’t joking. “Emilia… what’s going on?”

She took a long breath. “He nearly got himself killed on the last mission. Again. Charging in, guns blazing, zero thought. And when it was over…” She shook her head. “He tried to crack a joke like nothing happened.”

“That sounds like him.”

“Yeah, well, it pissed me off.”

You frowned. “Why?”

Her voice dropped. “Because I’m tired of watching him almost die. I’m tired of acting like it doesn’t bother me.”

You softened. “You care about him.”

She stared at the untouched drink. “More than I should.”

Her voice wasn’t angry—just vulnerable, raw in a way she rarely let anyone see.

“He’s… broken,” she said quietly. “In ways he doesn’t even understand. And I’ve been picking up his pieces for months.” She paused, jaw trembling before she forced it still. “And I don’t know how many pieces are left.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t interrupt. You just let her talk.

“People think I’m cold,” she continued. “That I don’t feel anything. But Peacemaker—Chris—he gets under my skin. He tries so hard to be good, and the world just keeps crushing him.”

Her fingers tightened around the glass.

“I shouldn’t care,” she whispered. “But I do.”

You reached toward her—the smallest gesture. She didn’t pull away.

“Emilia,” you said softly, “you’re allowed to care about him. You’re human.”

She scoffed, looking away. “Don’t tell him that. He wouldn’t shut up for weeks.”

You laughed. She almost smiled.

Then her eyes lifted to yours—gentle, tired, honest. “He drives me insane,” she added. “But he’s… family. In the worst, most annoying way possible. And I hate that I worry about him.”

“That doesn’t make you weak.”

“No,” she murmured. “It makes me real.”

You squeezed her hand lightly. “And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

She let out a shaky breath, something easing in her chest.