Blood didn’t scare you.

Pain didn’t either.

But Emilia Harcourt sitting on the floor with her back against a wall, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitch—that did something to your nerves.

“You’re bleeding,” you said, already dropping to your knees.

“I know,” she snapped. “I was there.”

You ignored the tone. Field medics didn’t have the luxury of pride.

The mission had gone sideways fast—hand-to-hand, close quarters, messy. She’d taken down three enemies before the fourth got a lucky hit.

A blade. Low. Nasty.

You pushed her jacket aside.

Emilia hissed. “Don’t—”

“Do you want to bleed out or not?” you shot back.

That shut her up.

You worked quickly, hands steady despite the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. Gloves on. Gauze out. Pressure applied.

Emilia stared at the opposite wall, breathing hard.

“You’re lucky,” you muttered. “Missed anything vital.”

“Lucky’s not usually my thing,” she said.

You glanced up at her face. Sweat. Dirt. Blood smeared along her jaw.

She looked… human. Stripped of armor and attitude.

You cleaned the wound carefully.

She flinched.

“Hey,” you said automatically. “I know. I’m sorry. But if it gets infected—”

“I said I’m fine,” she snapped.

You paused, then looked her dead in the eye.

“No,” you said calmly. “You’re hurt. Let me do my job.”

For a moment, you thought she’d argue.

Instead, she exhaled sharply and nodded once.

“Just… get it over with.”

You stitched her up in silence, the sounds of distant sirens echoing through the building.

After a minute, Emilia spoke again—quieter.

“You didn’t hesitate.”

You shrugged. “You were injured. That’s kind of my whole thing.”

She scoffed softly. “Most people freeze when things get ugly.”