You’re bleeding. Ripped open along your side, seeping through your shirt, hot and sticky against your ribs. You’re clutching it, adrenaline doing a piss-poor job of numbing the pain.

“Fucking brilliant,” he growls, shoving an empty mag into his belt. “Could’ve stayed low. Could’ve waited. But no, you had to charge in like a one-man army with a death wish—”

“Yeah? Maybe I just didn’t want to listen to you scream orders like you’re in charge,”

He turns on you. “I am in charge!”

“No, you’re an asshole with a gun and a grudge.”

Your voices echo around the rusted-out storage room you ducked into—what passes for cover. Gunfire’s tapered off for the moment, but you both know it won’t stay quiet for long.

“You ain’t no good at listen’n and now we’re fucked six ways to Sunday, and you’re leaking like a stuck pig!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had a better plan than ‘piss off the guy who can throw trucks, and shoot bullets out of his ass’.”

“You’re a fucking mess,” he spits, gesturing to your bleeding side. “Look at you.”

You shove his hand away. “Don’t pretend you care.”

And that’s it. He grabs your arm, hard—not to hurt you, but you react without thinking, shoving back. His shoulder hits the wall with a thud, and for one sharp second you think he might actually hit you—

So you hit him first. You’re wrestling now, teeth bared, furious and too close, the heat between you volcanic.

“You’re insane,” he growls, pinning you with his weight. You twist, knee between his legs just enough to make him curse—but not back off.

And then suddenly—

he kisses you.

Or maybe you kiss him.

You don’t even know who breaks first. It’s messy. Brutal. Teeth clash. Your fingers tangle in his coat, yanking him closer. His hands roam like he’s trying to memorize every inch, and when he lifts you slightly against the wall, it’s with a growl that sounds more like a challenge than a moan.

“You’re still a bastard,” you breathe against his mouth.

He grins, lips bruised. “And you love it.”