You’re crouched in the dark, pressed against the crumbling remains of a stone wall slick with jungle moisture. The air hangs heavy around you—wet, hot, and loud with the sound of your breathing.

Chris is close. Too close.

You can feel him more than see him: the slow, steady rise of his chest; the scrape of his gloved hand against concrete as he shifts just slightly to check the perimeter. His other hand hovers near your shoulder—ready to pull you down, shield you, drag you out—if something moves wrong.

Nothing does. Not yet.

But neither of you moves either.

Your back is half against the wall, half against him. You can feel the heat of his body behind yours. There’s no room to put space between you, and maybe you’re not trying as hard as you should. The silence stretches long, broken only by a soft rustle of leaves somewhere out beyond the ruin. You both go still again, listening. Waiting.

His breath brushes the side of your neck. Unintended. Intimate.

You clench your jaw and don’t let yourself react—not outwardly. Not to the weight of him near your back, not to the memory of his hand on your arm a minute ago when he checked your wound. You told him it was nothing, and he didn’t argue. But he looked at you a moment longer than necessary.

He still is.

You turn your head slightly, barely enough to meet his eyes. It’s too dark to see them clearly, but you can feel the intensity in his gaze. Focused. Burning.

“You’re bleeding more than you think,” he murmurs, so close you can feel the vibration in his voice rather than hear it.

You want to say something—brush it off, shift the mood—but your words catch somewhere between your throat and your chest. Because this isn’t just about the mission anymore. Hasn’t been for a while.

You wonder if he’s going to touch you again. Wonder if he’s thinking about the way your fingers brushed in the armory two days ago, or the way you both stood a little too close when the comms failed and you had to share one mic.

You wonder if he remembers the rain.

How it drenched you both and forced you into the same tent, shivering and silent, breathing the same damp air until sleep took over and you woke up with his arm curled halfway around your waist. Neither of you mentioned it the next day.

And now here you are—again—drawn together by circumstance, held in place by something neither of you will name.

His fingers twitch near your arm.

You don’t pull away.

“Do we move?” you whisper, finally. Just something to break it.

Chris doesn’t answer at first. You hear him exhale, controlled and tight, like he’s letting go of something that never had permission to rise in the first place.

“Not yet,” he says.

You nod, and settle back—closer than before, letting yourself lean just barely into the heat of him. Just for a moment. Just enough to say what you can’t with words.

And still, neither of you moves.