The mission was a success. Mostly.

The extraction point was compromised. Radio silence. Gunfire. Blo0d. You had no choice but to improvise—again.

James took a hit to his side during the final push. Shrapnel—deep enough to tear through muscle. Not deep enough to stop him. You’d barely made it to the safe house when he collapsed against the doorframe, blo0d painting the snow behind you like some kind of warning.

Now he’s stitched up—badly, because the medkit was half-frozen and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The cut still bleeds sluggishly beneath the gauze. He winced, but never made a sound.

Outside, the blizzard has swallowed the entire mountain range. The sky went from gray to black in under ten minutes. Satellite phones are dead. Radios crackle useless static. You’re completely cut off.

Inside, the safe house is small and half-frozen. A single room. One couch. One bed. Thin walls. The fire you finally got going throws weak orange light across the cracked wooden floor.

James sits near the fire, hunched forward with his forearms resting on his knees. Steam rises from the edge of his coffee mug. His face is unreadable, lit in flickers. He hasn’t said a word in nearly ten minutes.

You’re pacing. Again. You know it’s annoying but you don’t care.

“You pacing isn’t gonna make the storm pass any faster,” he mutters without looking at you.

You scoff, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“Yeah, and brooding in the shadows isn’t gonna heal your side any quicker either, James.”

He exhales through his nose—half a laugh, half a sigh. You can see his jaw flex in the firelight. Always biting back something. Always holding it in.

“Didn’t ask you to patch me up,” he mutters.

“No,” you snap. “You just started bIeeding all over the snow like an idiot and figured I’d let you diē for the aesthetic.”

That gets him. He glances over at you—finally—and for a second, neither of you says anything. The wind outside screams like it wants in.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again.

“You always this angry after a mission?”

“Only when I’m stuck with you after it,” you fire back, though your tone softens just slightly at the end.

He stands slowly, wincing just a little. You clock it instantly, your eyes flicking to his side. He sees the look, rolls his eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bIeeding.”

“I’ve bled worse.”

The silence returns—but it’s heavier now. Thicker. The fire crackles. You can feel the tension curling in your spine like a second heartbeat.

He steps a little closer, head tilted slightly, eyes fixed on you in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.

“You’ve got that look again,” he says, voice low, like he’s not sure if he wants to provoke you or warn you.

Your brow lifts. “What look?”

He steps in just close enough for his shadow to stretch over yours.

“The one that says you’re either gonna kill me… or kiss me.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking to your mouth for just a second.

“Can’t tell which one scares me more.”

Outside, the storm rages. Inside, the air between you crackles louder than the fire ever could.