Everyone thinks Lucas Sinclair is fearless.

They see the slingshot in his hand, the way he steps forward when things get ugly, the calm voice he uses when everyone else is panicking. They see a hero who never hesitates.

You see what comes after.

You see him sit a little apart from the others once the danger has passed, shoulders slumped, staring at nothing like he’s replaying every choice he made. You see how his hands shake when he thinks no one’s watching, how he presses his palms together to steady himself. You see how heavy it all is, being the one who has to be brave every single time.

You don’t call him out on it. You don’t tell him to smile or joke or “lighten up.” You just sit beside him, close enough that your knees touch, close enough that he knows he’s not alone.

Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s just the sound of cicadas or the low hum of a walkie-talkie. Those are the moments where love starts to grow, not loud or dramatic, but steady. Real.

When he gets hurt, you’re the one who cleans the cuts on his knuckles, wraps bandages a little too carefully. He always thanks you like it’s nothing, but his eyes linger on your hands, like the gentleness surprises him.

“You don’t have to do this,” he tells you once.

“I know,” you say. “I want to.”

That’s when something shifts.

One night, after everything almost goes wrong, after someone almost doesn’t make it back, Lucas finally breaks. Not in front of the Party. Not in front of anyone who expects him to be strong. Just you.

“I’m scared all the time,” he admits, voice rough, eyes fixed on the ground. “I just… don’t let myself stop being brave.”