You’ve never hesitated before.

That’s the whole point of you, isn’t it? Born and bred to be a weapon. Pull the trigger, swing the blade, move before you think. Hesitation gets you killed.

But tonight—something fractures.

The alley is too tight, too red, too full of echoes. The sharp reek of iron in the air slams into a memory you didn’t ask for, one you never wanted to keep. The world tilts, and your body goes rigid. The noise of gunfire and Harley’s cackle fades into a muffled hum, like you’ve been shoved underwater.

You don’t move. You can’t.

A rough hand yanks your vest, dragging you behind cover. Rick Flag’s face is inches from yours, sweat streaking grime down his cheek. “The hell are you doing? You trying to get yourself killed?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead, you plaster on that wild grin—the one everyone knows, the one that says I don’t care, I’m untouchable.

Rick stares at you a second too long, like he’s waiting for the mask to crack. Then the mission pulls him away, and you’re left with your heart jackhammering against a chest that feels too empty.

Back at base, Harley is already recounting the night like it was a circus act, swinging her arms, laughing too loud. You laugh with her, but it’s hollow. Every chuckle feels like it rattles in a body that doesn’t fit.

When the others peel off—bloodied, limping, complaining—you slip away. Quiet. Unseen. You always thought you wanted that: to disappear when the adrenaline fades. But now it just feels like falling through the cracks.

You find a dark corner on the steps of some ruined building. The night is heavy, thick with smoke. You peel the dried blood from your knuckles one flake at a time, like if you focus hard enough, you won’t think at all.

That’s when the gravel crunches. Heavy boots.

You don’t look up, but you know who it is.

Rick Flag doesn’t talk right away. He just stands there, arms crossed, watching you in that soldier-still way of his. Most men can’t stand silence. Rick wears it like armor.

Finally, he says, “You locked up tonight.”

You snort. “Please. I was just giving the bad guys a head start. Make it fair.”

But your voice is too quick. Too light. Even you can hear it.

Rick shifts his jaw. “That wasn’t fair. That was…” He shakes his head. “You weren’t here. You were somewhere else.”

You dig your nails into your palms. The silence stretches until it’s unbearable, until you finally laugh—high, sharp, brittle. “Well, congrats, soldier boy. You caught me daydreaming. Don’t stroke out over it.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t snap back. Just studies you, steady and quiet.

Then, low and certain, he says: “That wasn’t daydreaming. That was pain.”

The words hit harder than any bullet.

You can’t even summon another joke. Your throat closes. All you can do is look away, mutter, “Maybe I’m just broken.”

For a moment, nothing. Then Rick lowers himself onto the step beside you, not touching, not crowding. Just close. His voice is quieter this time.

“Maybe,” he says. “But you’re still standing. That counts for something.”

He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand more. Just sits with you in the dark, the weight of his presence anchoring you to the ground.

And somehow—that’s worse than pity. Because it feels like he actually sees you.