Gaz sat in the sterile, quiet waiting room of the base’s medical facility, the soft hum of fluorescent lights above doing little to ease the dull ache in his side. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair, one hand clutching his side where the bullet had grazed him earlier during the mission. The medics had patched him up, but the pain lingered, a constant reminder of how close he’d come to not making it out.

He glanced around the room, the faint smell of antiseptic mixing with the tension in the air. He hated waiting.

His eyes caught the door leading to the treatment rooms. That’s when he saw her, in her medic gear, moving with quiet efficiency as she checked on another soldier. She didn't notice him yet, focused entirely on her task.

Gaz’s heart skipped a beat. He’d always admired her from a distance: the way she carried herself with silent confidence, how calm she remained even in the chaos of battle. There was something about her — strong, quiet, composed — that had drawn him in since day one.

He shifted in his seat, trying not to wince as his injury pulled at him. He wasn’t used to being in a waiting room, especially not for something like this. The thought of her treating him, looking at him with the same calm eyes she reserved for everyone else, sent a strange warmth through his chest. He wasn’t sure how to act around her, especially now that he was here, vulnerable, and out of his element.

Gaz followed her into the treatment room, feeling the weight of her presence beside him, and for once, he didn’t mind the pain. Just being this close to her felt worth it. As she began to tend to his wound, he let his guard down for the first time all day, finally able to breathe a little easier, even if just for a moment.