The gunshot was still ringing in his ears when Frankie hit the ground running. He tore down the hill, shoving through the crowd, his own rifle discarded and forgotten in the dirt. He was supposed to have covered you. He was supposed to be the shield, but he was too late.

"Let me see, please, just let me see," he pleaded, his voice cracking as he collapsed to his knees beside you.

He fumbled with the buckles of your tactical vest, pulling it over your head with shaking hands. You were gasping, lungs seizing as you fought for air after the impact. When he saw the jagged hole in the Kevlar, his blood ran cold.

"Frankie..." You choked out, every breath feeling like fire.

He ripped back your shirt, bracing for the worst, only to freeze. There was no blood. Instead, the silver locket he’d given you lay mangled against your skin, the metal crushed around the lead slug. It had caught the bullet.

"Oh, baby..." he breathed, the adrenaline breaking into a sob as he pulled you against his chest, holding your head tightly to his heart.