Dust rose as your boots caught the uneven ground, your balance betraying you mid-sprint during drills. The thud wasn’t too loud, but it was enough to draw a few glances—and one sharp, exasperated curse.

Before the sting of embarrassment could settle, Jean Kirstein was already there.

He dropped to your side in a heartbeat, hands firm but trembling as they slid under your arms, lifting you with more care than the situation demanded. His grip was steady, but his eyes flicked over you with barely-concealed panic—searching for blood, for breaks, for something worse.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, you idiot,” he muttered, voice low and gruff.

But he held you like glass. Like you might shatter if he breathed too hard. Like he’d never forgive the ground for touching you.

Behind the grumble was something else. Not just worry. Not just relief.

Something quieter. Something that sounded like please be more careful— Because you mattered more than he wanted to admit.