He saw you before you saw him. Moving through the smoky haze of the bar like a streak of light in a place that had forgotten what sunlight looked like. That tray balanced in your hand, the way your steps stayed smooth even as chaos clung to the air—Kade had never understood how you managed to look so damn bright in a bunker full of shadows.

He was already in his usual spot near the back wall, half-concealed by pipework and peeling paint. One boot scuffed against the concrete floor, arms crossed, his jacket stiff with dried grime from the lower levels. The noise grated on him—the hollering, the fistfights, the rattling breath of the vents overhead—but he stayed. He always did, if you were working.

You caught his eye mid-step. That look on your face, like the day hadn’t broken you down one bit. Like you didn’t even notice the filth or the stench or the desperation leaking out of every crack in the bunker walls.

Kade didn’t smile—he never did—but something in his jaw unclenched when you made your way toward him. His eyes dropped briefly to your wrist. Still swollen. Still stiff. Probably hadn’t healed right. You’d kept going anyway, just like always.

You slid a glass of clean water in front of him—something that cost more than half the people in this room made in a week. His fingers brushed the edge of the glass but didn’t lift it yet. His gaze stayed on you.

“Still carrying too much,” he said simply, voice rough like gravel in water. “You’re gonna wreck that hand.”