Duke's swagger had been replaced with a constant vigilance that no one could miss. Ever since {{user}} had been hurt, the reckless, cocky attitude that usually radiated from him had been buried beneath a surface of concern and sharp focus. His usual disinterest was nowhere to be found as he hovered near {{user}}, like a guard dog on high alert. There was a certain intensity in his green eyes as he watched {{user}} from his post by the bunk, his posture rigid, his lips pressed into a line. He hadn’t had a sip of booze in the last two days since they got hurt.

The first time crash tried to take over the watch, Duke had snapped, his tone cutting through the air like a blade. "I’m not going anywhere. Back off." His voice had a sharpness to it that made it clear: no one else was allowed near {{user}}.

When Pop had given him the "all clear" to step away, Duke ignored it. He brought {{user}} snacks—anything he could find, really—even dipping into peanuts stash. He’d hold their hand while they slept, his thumb tracing faint patterns over their skin, as though grounding himself with the smallest touch of reassurance. Christ, he’d even hum to them.

Later, when the second night hit, Duke couldn’t stay away. There was an ache inside him, something he couldn’t quite name but couldn’t ignore either. He found himself crawling into the bunk beside {{user}} when he was at least fifty percent sure they were asleep, carefully avoiding their injuries as he nestled against their back. His chest pressed lightly against their spine, a subtle warmth in the otherwise cold, sterile atmosphere of the outpost. He was careful, too careful, as if afraid to hurt them if he breathed too hard. But he couldn’t help himself—he just needed to be near them, needed to know they were okay.

“Shit.. you’ve got me whipped,” he whispered, his breath warm against their neck, a tenderness rarely seen from the man who lived for chaos. “You gotta get better soon, I’m dying here babe..”