The silence between you and Javier in the back of the Land Cruiser was heavier than the humidity of Bogotá. Just an hour ago, the apartment walls had practically rattled with the force of your argument. Bitter words about trust and the job that had bled into the space you shared as partners.

Now, checking his 9mm, Javi didn’t even look at you. His jaw was set in that rigid, stubborn line you knew meant he was still fuming, yet he still positioned himself to shield your side of the door as the convoy rolled to a stop.

When the raid hit, the rhythm was off. Usually, you were a symphony of synchronized movement, but today you were two rough edges. You cleared rooms with a cold, professional distance, ignoring the typical hand on the small of the back or the quick nod of reassurance. But when a sicario rounded the corner and ran through the window, Javi didn’t hesitate. He lunged, shoving you behind a concrete pillar and returning fire in one fluid motion, his eyes flashing with a protective fury that his pride wouldn't let him voice.

The chase broke out onto the rooftops, a maze of corrugated tin and crumbling brick. The suspect was fast, leaping over gaps with desperate adrenaline. You were gaining, your hand inches from his collar, when he spun around, the crack of the shot was deafening in the narrow space.

The world tilted. The impact in your side stealing the oxygen from your lungs in an instant. Your boots skidded on the loose gravel of the roof, and then there was no ground at all. You plummeted through a weak patch of roofing, the sound of splintering wood and metal swallowing your scream as you crashed into the darkness of the crawlspace below.

Above, Javier let out a raw, raspy shout of your name. He didn't stop, his rage fueling a sprint that ended with him tackling the gunman. He fired a shot into the man's shoulder to disable him, slammed his face into the gravel, and barely waited for the backup agents to swarm the roof before he was diving into the hole after you.

"{{user}}! Talk to me!"

He was tearing through the debris like a man possessed, throwing aside broken planks and sharp tin. When he found you, you were half buried, your skin an ashen gray that turned his blood to ice. He pulled you into his lap, his large hands trembling as he ripped your tactical vest open. The sight of the deep, pulsing crimson soaking through your shirt made his breath hitch.

Javier Peña didn’t do apologies. He didn't do "I'm sorry" or "I was wrong." He expressed his love through late night coffees and watching your back in a firefight. But as your eyes began to roll back, the light flickering like a dying candle, the bravado stripped away.

"Hey, hey, look at me," he choked out, his voice cracking as he pressed his hand firmly over the wound, your warm blood seeping between his fingers. He cradled your face with his other hand, his thumb stroking your cheek with a terrifying tenderness.

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare leave it like this. You hear me? We aren't done yet."

His forehead dropped against yours, a sob caught in his throat as he felt you slipping. "Stay with me, por favor. I’ve got you, baby... I’m right here. Just keep your eyes on me, sweetheart. Stay..."