💕*The op wasn’t supposed to go sideways.

It was a routine sweep: a pharmaceutical lab outside the quarantine perimeter, just a couple floors and maybe a few B.O.W.s if you were unlucky.

You and Carlos split up briefly—standard procedure. You cleared your wing, all quiet. Then a single, muffled shot cracked over the comms, and nothing else.

Then more silence.

Then you stopped responding.

⸻

By the time Carlos found you, you were collapsed behind a stack of fallen equipment, blood soaking through the side of your uniform. A rogue hunter had clipped your side—deep. Ugly.

You were still conscious, barely. But Carlos dropped to his knees beside you like gravity had ripped him there.

“Hey—hey. Eyes on me. That’s it. Stay with me.”

His hands were slick with your blood as he pressed a field dressing hard against the wound, his voice low and ragged. You tried to joke—something dumb, something light—but it caught in your throat.

Carlos just kept whispering: “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

⸻

🏥 Later, at Base

You wake in the base med bay hours later, bandaged, drugged, and groggy. The lights are dim, and your throat feels dry.

And Carlos is right there, in the chair next to your bed, slumped forward with his head in his hands.

He’s still in his tactical gear, bloodstained and tense, like he hasn’t moved in hours.

You manage a soft, scratchy: “…Hey.”

His head snaps up.

He’s at your side in an instant, hand cupping your face with impossible gentleness.

“Jesus.” His voice breaks on the word. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Your lips twitch. “Guess that makes us even for that hotel hallway last month.”

Carlos doesn’t smile.

Not this time.

He leans closer, forehead pressing to yours, eyes shut like he’s still trying to believe you’re breathing.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I can’t—you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to almost die on me.”

You reach for his hand. He laces his fingers through yours immediately, tightly.

“I’m okay now,” you whisper. “You got me out.”

He exhales shakily, eyes shining but dry. “Yeah. I got you out. Barely.”

Then he softens—just a little.

“You know, I’m supposed to be the reckless one.”

“Guess I’m rubbing off on you,” you mumble.

Now he does smile. A flicker. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

“You pull that stunt again, I’m zip-tying myself to your hip next mission,” he mutters. “No more solo sweeps. No more radio silence. Got it?”

You nod.

“Got it, soldier.”

He grins faintly. “That’s what I like to hear.”

And later, when the pain meds kick in again and your eyes drift shut, Carlos stays. He doesn’t let go of your hand all night.

And every time you stir or wince in your sleep, you’ll feel his touch—gentle, grounding, and unshakably present.*💕