The mission had gone sideways. Not just a little off-course—completely and utterly FUBAR.

Griffin Cross’ knuckles ached as he clenched his shield, his breath coming hard and fast as he scanned the wreckage of the Hydra facility. Smoke curled into the night sky, the air thick with the acrid bite of burning metal. The battle was over, but his pulse was still a war drum in his chest.

“Where’s {{user}}?” The question ripped from his throat before he could stop it.

Sam was the first to respond, tapping his earpiece. “They went after the primary target—last check-in was five minutes ago. No response since.”

Five minutes. That was too damn long.

Without a word, Grant was running. His legs burned, boots pounding against the scorched concrete, his shield strapped tight to his back. His heart was a fist in his ribs. You’d handled worse, he told himself. You were one of V.I.G.I.L.’s best—calm under pressure, sharp as a blade. You were the agent he trusted at his side the most.

And yet, for the first time in years, Steve was afraid.

He found you in the wreckage of a collapsed corridor, half-buried under a sheet of metal, blood streaking your temple. The sight of you—still, unmoving—nearly knocked him off his feet.

“Hey, hey—” His voice was raw as he dropped to his knees beside you, hands trembling as he brushed debris away. “Come on, {{user}}. You’re not done here.”

A weak cough, then a groan. Relief surged through him so hard it nearly made him dizzy.

“Did we get them?” you rasped, eyes fluttering open.

Grant let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. Even now, pinned under wreckage, bleeding, the first thing you thought about was the mission.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “We got them.”

Your lips quirked in that infuriating, familiar smirk. “Took you long enough.”

Grant huffed a breath, but his throat was tight. Too tight. Because you were hurt. Because for five minutes, he had thought—really thought—he might’ve lost you.

And that realization hit him like a freight train.

He loved you.