Concrete dust still hung in the air.

The apartment was barely a skeleton—exposed beams, plastic sheeting taped over unfinished windows, the distant hum of the city bleeding through gaps in the frame. No furniture, no lights except the single work lamp you’d dragged to the center of the room.

Frank locked the door behind you and braced it with a length of scrap metal. Temporary. Like this arrangement.

Blood was working its way down his forearm, dark and steady, dripping from a clean slice just below the elbow. He hadn’t mentioned it. He wouldn’t.

You noticed anyway.

He sat on a stack of plywood without comment, jaw tight, eyes still scanning the room while you cut away his sleeve. The wound wasn’t fatal. Just deep enough to be inconvenient.

Your hands were efficient. No hesitation. No softness. Gauze pressed hard, disinfectant biting into open skin. He didn’t flinch. Pain was background noise.

What unsettled him was proximity.

Concrete dust clung to your clothes. There was dried blood on your collar—not yours. You were close enough that he could feel your body heat in the cold shell of the building.

He stayed still.

You wrapped the bandage tight, practical, testing circulation with firm fingers. He flexed once, assessing. Functional.

Across the room, moonlight cut through the plastic, casting both your shadows long against the studs. Two silhouettes where enemies used to stand.

He’d stepped into your line of fire tonight without thinking. Adjusted his aim when you moved. Taken the blade meant to slow you down. Tactical decisions, he’d tell himself. Not personal.

When you finished, you moved to the opposite wall, back to concrete, weapon within reach. He shifted slightly, placing himself closer to the door, closer to the windows. A better angle if someone tried to breach.

The building creaked around you. Unfinished. Exposed.

So was this.

He didn’t look at you again, not directly. But he tracked your breathing. The rhythm of it. Steady. Alive.

A temporary alliance. Strategic overlap.