Adrian, helmet tucked under his arm, wiped a smear of grime from his cheek with the back of his hand. Mission accomplished, mostly. A few bruises, a dent in the ego where Harcourt had (again) outmaneuvered him, but nothing a six-pack and some aggressive self-pity couldn’t fix.

Harcourt was leaning against a crumbling concrete pillar, her posture deceptively casual if you ignored the tight press of her lips and the way her left arm cradled her ribs. A nasty, shimmering burn, the aftermath of a glancing plasma blast, traced its way from her wrist to her elbow, the skin an angry, blistered red.

You were there, your hands already glowing with that soft, aurora-like light you conjured from somewhere deep inside.

“Hold still, Emi,” you murmured, voice all business, but with that underlying warmth you reserved for the team. Your family.

Adrian watched, rooted. He watched your brow furrow in concentration, the tip of your tongue peeking out the corner of your mouth. He watched your hands smooth over the angry wound on Harcourt’s arm. A touch was necessary, he knew that. You had to make contact to guide the healing. But this… this was different.

Your fingers lingered. They traced the perimeter of the burn with a tenderness that made something prickle at the base of Adrian’s spine. You leaned in close. One hand was splayed across Harcourt’s bicep, holding her steady, the other dancing over the injured flesh. A minute passed. Then another. The burn was receding, the angry red fading to a tender pink, but you didn’t stop. Your thumb brushed back and forth over the newly healed skin, as if applying an invisible balm.

A hot, sour knot twisted in Adrian’s gut. It was ridiculous. It was Harcourt. Stone-cold, eye-rolling, “Adrian, you’re a moron”. But you were touching her like she was made of spun glass. You’d never touched him like that. You’d patched him up a hundred times; slapped a glowing hand on a bullet graze with a muttered “quit whining,” or yanked a dislocated shoulder back into place with a cheerful, “That's it, buddy.” Efficient. Friendly. Buddy.

This was not buddy. This was… intimate. Poetic, even.

Now, he wasn’t joking. He was burning.

Economos clanked past, lugging a piece of alien tech. “Nice save, {{user}}. Harcourt, you good?”

“Peachy,” Harcourt said, but she was looking at you with a grudging softness, a slight, unguarded tilt to her head. “Thanks. Feels… better than new.”

You finally drew your hands back, the light winking out. But you left one hand on her shoulder, squeezing. “Just take it easy for tonight, okay? No heavy lifting. No throwing Adrian into walls.”

“You’re cutting into my rehab routine,” Harcourt deadpanned, but she covered your hand with hers for a brief second. A second too long.

The warehouse felt suddenly cavernous, cold. The metallic taste in his mouth wasn’t just from the dust. It was jealousy, pure and stupid and undignified.

He shoved his helmet on, the world narrowing to the familiar HUD, needing the armor, the barrier. He stomped over, the sound of his boots unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet of the post-mission space.

“Great. Team hug’s over,” he said, his voice filtered through the modulator, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near petulant asteroid. “Can we blow this popsicle stand? I’ve got a date with my couch and a frozen pizza that’s calling my name.”

As the team loaded into the van, as Harcourt took shotgun with a nod in your direction, Adrian hung back. He nudged you with his elbow as you climbed in.

“So, you and Harcourt, huh?” he whispered, the helmet off now, letting you see the wry, self-deprecating twist of his smile. “All that tender healing. I’m hurt. Metaphorically. My wounds are strictly metaphysical.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving him into the seat. “Shut up, Adrian. Her injury was deeper. It needed a delicate touch.”

“And my profound emotional and physical trauma gets the drive-thru special?”