The second you hear about the fight over comms, your heart drops.

You and Tim hadn’t spoken since that morning — not really.

Just clipped words, cold glances, the kind of silence that stings worse than yelling. You were still mad. He was still mad. And now?

Now he’s bleeding and catching his breath in the middle of a busted hallway, bruised knuckles curled around the fake engagement ring from the op.

You storm toward him, hands shaking, heart in your throat.

“Are you out of your damn mind?” you yell.

He looks up, exhausted but defiant. “Nice to see you too.”

You glance down — he’s on one knee, holding the ring like he just proposed. Like you didn’t just threaten to sleep on the couch for a week.

He follows your gaze, realizing too late how it looks. “Don’t even say it.”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to,” you say, voice tight. “But wow, how romantic. Covered in blood, on one knee, after nearly getting yourself killed—”

“I was trying to get your ring back!” he snaps, then softens immediately. “I couldn’t just let him take it.”

Silence falls between you. His hand is still stretched out, the ring glinting in the light.

You sigh, stepping closer, and gently take the ring from his hand.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “But I’m your idiot.”

And you should still be mad — you are mad — but then his hand finds your waist, and yours finds his collar, and suddenly the hallway doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

“You better not be trying to win the fight by being hot,” you mutter against his mouth as he leans in.

“I’m not trying,” he breathes.