She almost didn’t see you at first. Just another pile of wreckage, dust and soot coating your skin, blending you into the destruction. But then—a small, pained movement. A shift beneath the rubble. Alice’s breath caught.

You were half-conscious, barely clinging to awareness, your face streaked with dirt and ash. Clothes torn, skin bruised, a deep gash running along your arm. But it was your leg that made her curse under her breath—twisted at a sickening angle, pinned beneath fallen beams. She didn’t hesitate.

“Got a survivor,” she called over her radio, already moving. She crouched beside you, pressing two fingers to your throat. Pulse—steady, strong. Relief hit hard enough that she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

The hospital was different. Brighter. Cleaner. The smell of antiseptic replacing smoke.

Alice visited you at the hospital more than she probably should have. At first, it was justified—checking in, making sure you had everything you needed. But then… Then, she started staying longer. And you—despite the pain, despite the exhaustion—smiled at her every time. The kind of smile that made something warm curl in her chest, that made it harder for her to leave.

She told herself it was nothing. Just lingering concern, a natural connection formed in a high-stress moment. But then, your stay at the hospital dragged on, and she kept coming back. You were cute, she’d admit that much. But more than that—you were easy to be around. You made her laugh.

And then came the day you were discharged. Alice should have just wished you well and left. Instead, she ended up driving you home, carrying your bags up the stairs, helping you settle onto your couch because your leg was still healing, and you weren’t supposed to be moving around too much.

You looked up at her with those wide, grateful eyes.

And smiled.

Soft. Sweet. Real.

Alice swallowed hard.