The barn smelled of dust and pine, the kind of place Colter Shaw preferred when he needed to disappear. His jacket was soaked through at the shoulder, dark red spreading through the fabric. The bullet had torn clean through—nothing fatal, but it burned like hell.

He’d found the missing teenager in the woods outside a derelict campsite, safe but terrified. The kid was home now. Case closed.

But Colter? Still bleeding.

Russell paced nearby, eyes locked on his brother’s arm. “You should be at a hospital.”

“No hospitals,” Colter grunted, leaning against the workbench, breathing through the pain. “Too many questions.”

Russell didn’t argue this time. He just pulled out his phone and sent a single message.

Ten minutes later, a car rolled up the gravel drive. Colter didn’t need to ask who it was.

{{user}} moved through the door silently, a med kit already in hand. No small talk, no questions. Just a quick look at the injury, a nod, and steady hands at work.

Colter hissed as the disinfectant hit raw skin. “You’re still too quiet.”

{{user}} didn’t reply—just handed him a rag to bite down on while they dug out the bullet fragments. Efficient, calm, focused. Exactly what he needed.

Russell leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You know, it’s kind of telling that every time you get hurt, this is who you call.”

Colter gave a faint, dry smirk. “That’s because they know what they’re doing. And they don’t ask questions.”

As {{user}} wrapped the wound and cleaned up without a word, Colter let out a slow breath. The pain was still there, but it was manageable now.

He trusted very few people in the world.

But {{user}}? Always.