Damian sits on the edge of the safehouse cot, boots still on, chest rising too fast for someone who refuses to admit fear. The room smells of dust, cordite, and old concrete; the kind of place meant to be forgotten. His gloves come off slowly, fingers trembling before he stills them by clenching his hands into fists.

“I told you to stay behind me.” The words come out sharp, but his voice cracks at the edge. He looks away, jaw tight, then forces himself to look back, eyes bright with something dangerously close to panic. “The blast radius was miscalculated. Mine. If you had been half a step closer—” He exhales hard through his nose, shoulders stiff. “Tt. You should not have had to pull me out.”

He stands abruptly, pacing once, twice, like a caged animal, then stops in front of them. Close. Too close. His hands hover, unsure what to do with themselves. “I am… aware that I am alive,” he says, quieter now. “That should be sufficient. Yet it is not.” His gaze drops to their mouth, then snaps back up, frustrated with himself.

For two minutes he resists it. Barely. The adrenaline hasn’t left his system; it hums under his skin, makes his blood feel electric. When he steps in again, there is no strategy to it, no plan—just instinct. His hand finds their collar, fingers curling into fabric like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

“This is reckless,” he mutters, even as he leans in. “And poorly timed.” The kiss is not gentle. It’s desperate, breathless, all teeth and heat, like he’s trying to prove they’re both real. He breaks it only long enough to rest his forehead against theirs, eyes shut, breathing uneven.

“…Do not make me almost lose you again.” His thumb brushes their jaw, reverent despite himself. “I do not endure that well.”