They told him you were dead. Your body was never recovered—just blood, debris, and a ruined evacuation route swallowed by fire. The report was short. Clinical.

KIA.

Piers read it three times before it meant anything.

Then he stopped reading altogether. He kept going after that. Missions. Orders. Survival. But every quiet moment ended the same—with the memory of your voice in his headset, cut off mid-sentence.

He was supposed to protect you. He didn’t.

Months later, during an intelligence sweep, a grainy image flickers onto a monitor. A holding cell. Low light. A familiar posture—shoulders tense, head bowed, alive in a way that makes his chest seize painfully.

You.

Alive.

Used as leverage by a bioterrorist faction that knows exactly who you matter to. Piers doesn’t wait for permission.

The door to the cell screeches open, harsh light flooding in. You flinch instinctively, pressing back against the wall—until you hear footsteps you recognize even before you see him.

“Y/N…”

His voice breaks on your name.

You look up slowly, eyes hollowed by exhaustion, disbelief flickering across your face. You look thinner. Hurt. Real.

“…Piers?” Your voice is barely there. “They said you were dead.”

His breath stutters. He crosses the space in seconds, dropping to his knees in front of you like his legs can’t hold him up anymore.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers, hands hovering just short of touching you, afraid you’ll disappear. “I thought—I failed you.”

You don’t answer right away. Months of fear, captivity, and survival sit heavy in your chest.

“They kept me alive,” you finally say, quiet and raw. “Because of you.”

His jaw tightens. Guilt crashes over his face. “I’m getting you out,” he says firmly, voice shaking with something dangerously close to desperation. “I don’t care what it costs. I’m not leaving you again.”