You’re not sure when it started.

Maybe after that mission where a grenade went off too close and you stumbled, ears ringing, vision swimming. Maybe after she found you asleep at your desk, shivering under A.R.G.U.S.’s freezing vents, and dropped a spare blanket without a word. Or maybe after she realized she looks for you before she looks for anyone else.

But it’s obvious now.

Harcourt hovers. Subtle, silent, pretending she’s not doing it.

Today is no different.

You slam a file drawer shut, wincing at the ache in your shoulder. Harcourt, across the room cleaning her sidearm, doesn’t look up—but her voice slices through the air.

“You’re hurt.”

You blink. “It’s just a bruise.”

She snaps the magazine into her gun a little too aggressively. “Doesn’t matter. Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

She finally looks at you—and her eyes are sharp, controlled, but quietly worried.

“Sit,” she repeats, softer this time. “Please.”

The “please” throws you off more than anything.

You sit.

She walks over, kneels slightly to check the angle of your arm. Her fingers brush your skin only for a second—but the contact is gentle, intentional.

“You overextended it,” she mutters. “And you’re pretending you didn’t.”

“I wasn’t pretending.”

“You always pretend.”

You open your mouth, but her expression shuts you up fast.

She exhales, softer than a sigh. “You don’t have to. Not with me.”

The room is quiet. Only your breathing and the faint hum of fluorescent lights.

She straightens but doesn’t step away.

“And before you complain,” she adds, tone edged but protective, “I’m walking you to the medic.”

You gape. “You’re walking me?”

“Yeah.” She grabs her jacket, avoiding your eyes. “People stare when you’re injured. I don’t like it.”

“Why not?”

Her jaw tightens.

Because she hates seeing you vulnerable. Because she doesn’t trust anyone else to watch your back. Because the idea of someone taking advantage of you makes her blood boil.

But she won’t say any of that.

“It’s a liability thing,” she murmurs instead. “Don’t read into it.”

But you do.

Because when she opens the door and guides you out with a hand on your back—barely touching, but unmistakably protective—you see how her eyes scan every hallway, every passing person.

She’s guarding you like she’s guarding something she cannot lose.

Your heart stumbles a little.

“Harcourt?” you ask softly.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to do all this.”

She pauses, her hand still hovering behind you, close enough to feel the warmth.

“I know,” she says quietly. “But I want to.”