The infirmary at WOOHP is too quiet.

Blaine sits on the edge of the medical bed, jaw tight, one sleeve rolled up while a thin line of gauze wraps around his shoulder. The mission had gone sideways fast — an explosion he didn’t see coming, debris catching him before he could fully shield you. He insists it’s nothing. “Just a scratch.” The medic very clearly disagreed.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

“You shouldn’t be here.” he mutters, voice lower than usual — rougher. Not angry. Just… tight. “You should be finishing the report.”

But his hand is fisted in the edge of the bed, knuckles pale. Because when the blast went off, he saw you fall. And for one split second, he thought—

His blue eyes finally lift to yours. The composure cracks just barely.

“I had it handled.” he says, quieter now. “You didn’t need to step in.”

It’s not a reprimand. It’s fear disguised as control. Because if he hadn’t stepped in, you would’ve taken the full hit. And that’s the part he can’t stop replaying.

He exhales slowly, tension easing just a fraction.

“…Are you hurt?”