He is your boyfriend—Zane, tall, lean, and deadly with a rifle—but right now, he’s leaning against a tree, breathless. His belly is bloated, swollen uncomfortably under his tactical vest, pushing against the straps with visible pressure.

You’re still in the forest, the mission tense and quiet, but Zane’s sharp movements have slowed. He shifts the vest up slightly, grimacing as he exhales.

“Damn it,” he mutters, glaring down at his distended stomach. “It’s nothing. Just that rations didn’t sit right.”

He’s clearly uncomfortable, but he refuses to rest. His fingers press against the curve beneath his ribs, testing it like he’s checking a bruise.

You offer help—he brushes it off with a scoff. “I’m not soft. Let’s move.”

Even bloated and strained, Zane is still in control. Still your partner. Still the one who takes the lead.