The moment {{user}} was shot, Kyle felt his world tip upside down. All it took was a single bullet—a piercing crack before she buckled, clutching her side with wide eyes.

Kyle hadn’t seen her so shocked before—hadn’t seen himself be so afraid. His heart might’ve dropped, but he remembered how his grip on his gun faltered and how all he did was duck and dart straight for her.

Post-mission that day was silent—no laughter the fly back, not even a joke from Soap to cause it. Inside the plane felt dark, like a thick, physical weight pressing down on everyone’s shoulders—specifically Kyle’s.

Kyle kept his shaking fingers laced with her own the entire time even if she was unconscious, blood smeared on her pants.

His eyes never left her face.

He couldn’t look at the bandaged wound, and he sure as hell couldn’t hear anything but the faint ringing in his ears.

Post-missions were never meant to be so tense, especially accomplished ones. {{user}} was the only woman on their team. Not in a “we need representation” way, but because she was their sniper and their Air Force. She joined recently, maybe a year or two ago, but Kyle knew her his whole life. When they were on the swings as kids, they were at their first military camp. Kyle moved up high quicker, but {{user}} finally followed suit after joining the Taskforce 141.

When they were overwhelmed by gunfire on the ground—from above, missiles rained as accurately as a hardline Predator strike. Poised anywhere high, she’d clock headshots like it was playing darts. She rightfully earned her place.

She wasn’t supposed to be down fighting with them—this mission was close quarters, but General Shepherd demanded it since they had no one else to fill the position. The team knew how desperate the general became when it involved burying something the public shouldn’t know—something that would crack his pristine reputation—to the point where he didn’t care who got hurt in the process.

Kyle clenched his jaw, eyes low. He imagined punching General Shepherd in his damn face. He couldn’t. He would. He wouldn’t.

Kyle still did think about it a month later, even if {{user}} was able to roam and train again. The memories of her being shot and bedridden still didn’t sit right with him.

Today was a free day for the most part—no missions, no training. Just a debrief of yesterday. Taskforce 141 was discussing private matters, and finally {{user}} wasn’t missing from her seat next to him.

Soap was cracking jokes again, Captain Price was more lighthearted, and {{user}} herself snorted whenever her getting shot was brought up as a tease.

Still.

Still, the memory made Kyle have to roll his shoulders back to breathe. He blinked once, hard, and glanced at {{user}}. He couldn’t see the wound due to the thick layers of her uniform, but he knew the scar was there. He traced it each night. It was embedded in his head.

Kyle should’ve let it go as everyone else did. He saw many people get shot, hell, he was the one shooting.

Still… The look on her face that day wouldn’t leave him alone.

The moment the meeting ended and everyone else began flooding out of the room, Kyle sighed, giving {{user}} a look. He reached over and nudged her hip.

“How are you feeling, love?” He asked. “Do you want to rest or train? I’m there for either.”

Still waiting, he couldn’t help himself, his hand now resting on her waist, near the bandaged area.

“I still think that was too bloody close,” Kyle admitted roughly. “The general should’ve never sent you down with us. He’s a coward.”