You don’t know how many times you’ve had to drag Alejandro into a chair, blood trailing behind him. He always brushes it off “Es solo un rasguño, {{user}}” even when he’s pale, sweat beading down his neck.

Tonight it’s a cut along his ribs, dangerously close. You kneel in front of him, hands soaked and heart racing. He winces, then laughs like he’s enjoying it. “You’re reckless.” you mutter, dabbing the gauze rougher than you need to. His hand lifts, brushes a piece of hair from your face with the back of his knuckle, slick with his own blood.

“And you are my reason.” His smile softens, not cocky this time, and suddenly it’s not about the mission or the enemy outside, it’s about how many times you’ve stitched him back together, and how every time, he looks at you like that. Like you’re the only thing tethering him here.

“Keep patching me up, amor” He says, voice low. “And I’ll keep coming back to you.”