The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the city beyond the windows. You’d insisted on keeping things simple for him while he recovered—no noisy gatherings, no extra stress, just a place to breathe. Still, the silence sometimes pressed down harder than a crowded room ever could.

Joaquin sat propped up on the couch, one arm draped loosely over the back cushion, his injured side bandaged beneath a soft gray t-shirt. The sling had become his least favorite accessory, though he wore it without complaint, at least around you.

The mission replayed in his head in loops: the split-second decision, the way he’d thrown himself in front of you, the searing impact that followed. He’d tell anyone else it was instinct, part of the job, but with you?

The truth lingered, sharp and heavy, every time your eyes flickered to the spot where he’d been hit.

He caught your look and gave a crooked grin, the same one he always used to soften tension. “Don’t start with the guilt trip,” he said gently. “I told you—I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

He leaned his head back against the cushion, sighing as though trying to ease the weight of his own words. For all his insistence, there was something unspoken threading between the two of you now. The banter that used to be your trademark in the field felt softer, edged with things neither of you had said yet.

The evening settled into a rhythm. You adjusted the cushions behind him when his shoulder stiffened, nudged a glass of water into his hand when the painkillers kicked in and made him foggy. Joaquin, true to form, cracked small jokes to lighten the mood, though sometimes he stopped mid-sentence when the ache cut too deep.

“You make a decent nurse,” he teased one night, voice rough but warm. “Couldn’t have asked for better company while I’m out of commission.”

But the quiet nights bled into something else—moments where your hands brushed when you helped him stretch, or when your laughter filled the spaces his couldn’t reach. For someone who thrived on action, Joaquin found himself strangely content in the stillness, because it was with you.

Sometimes he looked at you too long, as if memorizing the way you carried both worry and determination in the same breath. And sometimes, when the silence between you grew thick, he looked like he wanted to say something—wanted to let the truth spill out. But then he’d catch himself, swallow it back, and instead shift the conversation back to something safer.

Tonight, though, there was a pause after you helped him adjust the sling. His fingers brushed yours, lingering a moment longer than usual. His chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath.

“I hate that you keep blaming yourself,” he said quietly, his eyes locking on yours. “You’re not the reason this happened. I made the choice, and I’d make it again.”

There it was—the truth, steady and sure. He didn’t flinch as he said it, didn’t soften it with humor. For once, he let the weight of the words stand, because you needed to hear them.

And maybe, just maybe, because he needed you to understand that what he felt went deeper than partnership, deeper than duty.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was charged, waiting, the kind of moment that begged for something to shift. Joaquin’s gaze stayed steady, his jaw tight but his expression open, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed.

“Tell me you believe me,” he said finally, his voice low, almost pleading. “Please.”