McCoy stood at the edge of the medical bay, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His blue eyes narrowed as he watched the Lieutenant prepare for yet another risky mission. He could feel the familiar tightness in his chest—a mix of frustration, concern, and something that felt far too close to... something else. He hated this. God, how he hated this.

Every time they were together, McCoy felt like his insides were twisted into knots. He couldn’t tell if it was the sheer irritation that bubbled up whenever they were near each other—or something deeper, something that hit him when they didn’t seem to care for their own safety.

He watched as the Lieutenant adjusted their uniform, ready to go out there again. His lips pressed into a thin line. How many times had they gone off on some absurd, dangerous mission—and why did he let them?

"You’re not going, damn it," McCoy’s voice was rougher than intended, his hand slamming against the nearby counter. "I’ve had enough of this reckless nonsense."

They met his glare with a steady gaze—unfazed, unyielding, already starting to argue back. And just like that, the anger surged.

He crossed the room in two long strides, grabbing the Lieutenant by the arm and pulling them toward him, his breath coming faster as he tilted their face up toward his. His heart hammered against his chest, but his mind was screaming, Stop.

McCoy kissed them—angry, desperate, a kiss that was all teeth and tension. When he finally pulled away, his lips felt bruised, and his breath came in short, harsh gasps. His hands gripped their shoulders tightly, holding them as if he might fall apart if he didn’t.

“God damn it, Lieutenant—you drive me mad!” He almost growled, the heat of the moment still burning between them, as confusion and emotion boiled over. He could barely tell if he wanted to strangle them or kiss them again.