The smell of antiseptic and lemon-scented floor cleaner hit Rhys the second he stepped into the hospital’s south entrance. His side still throbbed under the bandage, but he walked without a limp. That was on purpose. Tactical guys like him didn’t do limps, at least not in public. Still, there was a sharp tug every time he twisted too far, and the staples in his side felt like a zipper someone had left halfway undone.

Technically, he was cleared to go home. His discharge papers were in the inside pocket of his jacket, still warm from the ER printer. But instead of heading out the automatic doors like a normal person, he took the elevator to the fourth floor - pediatric ward.

He didn’t tell {{user}} he’d been admitted. That would’ve led to questions. And {{user}} asked smart questions, the kind he sometimes wasn’t allowed to answer.

It had been a hostage extraction gone sideways. Supposed to be in and out - clean. But someone on the inside had tipped the target, and suddenly a quiet takedown turned into a sprint through crossfire. Rhys had taken a clean hit through the side - didn’t hit anything vital, didn’t even bleed too much. But command insisted on a hospital visit “just in case.” Civilian hospitals were better for optics, even if they were a pain in the ass.

So now he was here. At the hospital where {{user}} worked. Saving kids. Fixing small lives. While he spent his nights breaking into compounds and occasionally taking lives. Necessary ones, but still - the contrast wasn’t lost on him.

He pushed open the doors of the pediatric ward. It was quieter than the rest of the hospital, but not silent. A TV in the corner played a muted cartoon. A nurse wheeled past with a tray of medications. The walls were painted in soft blues and greens, with hand-painted animals peeking out from corners like they were playing hide and seek. He scanned the hallway until he saw her.

She was halfway through writing a note on a patient chart, leaning against the counter at the nurses’ station. Her hair was tied back in a low knot. She wore her glasses today - she only did that on long shifts. He stood there a second, letting the sight of her settle something tight in his chest. Then she looked up.

At first, she didn’t register it. Her eyes flicked past him, and then snapped back.

“Rhys?”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp - laced with confusion. She set the chart down slowly, like her brain was still catching up to what her eyes were seeing.

“What are you doing here?”

He gave a small shrug, one shoulder barely moving. “Thought I’d stop by.”

“You’re limping.”

“No, I’m not.”

She was already walking around the counter. Up close, she could see it - the way he was standing stiff on one side, the faint edge of pain he was trying to hide behind his usual smirk.

“What happened?” she asked, this time quieter.

He looked at her for a second. Then he said the same thing he always did when he couldn’t tell her everything.

“It’s fine now.”

She didn’t believe it. Not really. But she also didn’t press - not here, not in front of nurses and open doors and curious kids.

She saved lives. He risked his. And neither of them ever said out loud how hard that balance was to carry.