It had been one of those merciless summer weeks where the sun felt less like a distant star and more like a low-hanging god of fire, relentless in its judgement. The sky was cruelly clear, not a single wisp of cloud to cast even a whisper of shadow. The pavement shimmered with heat mirages, the air itself vibrating like it was alive with tension. Not even the insects dared to move in such heat—silent, stilled, suffocated.

Your uniform clung to your frame like a second, soaked skin. Sweat traced rivers down your spine, pooled beneath your collar, stung your eyes. The heavy combat boots, the overloaded pack, the suffocating gear—it was all part of the drill. Another lap. Another set of push-ups. Another moment to prove you belonged. And beneath it all, the unspoken need to keep your head down, to never falter. No slip-ups. Not when eyes might linger. Not when they might start to whisper. About you. About him.

John was out there, barking orders like thunder, watching everything and nothing all at once. To them, he was just the Captain. But to you, he was the slow exhale in the dark. The warmth in a colder world. The risk you never meant to fall into—but couldn’t escape.

You dropped to the ground again, pack discarded beside you, arms trembling as they carried the weight of discipline and pride. You’d done it a hundred times already today, and yet your body screamed with the betrayal of exhaustion. Your muscles shook, your skin flushed too hot, and your vision—your stubborn, traitorous vision—blurred at the edges like ink dropped in water.

You grit your teeth, forcing yourself down and up again, refusing to let the darkness claim you. But it did. Silently. Suddenly.

Your body gave out before your pride could stop it.

You didn’t hear the thud of your collapse, but he did.

“Shit—! Medic!” Price’s voice cut through the air, sharp and immediate, laced with something raw. Not anger. Not command. Panic.

He was the first to reach you, boots thudding against the scorched ground, kneeling beside your crumpled form with none of the careful distance he usually kept. His hands were on you in an instant—one steadying your head, the other patting your flushed cheek with just enough force to rouse, never to bruise.

“Hey. Hey, sweetheart. Stay with me now, c’mon.” His voice dropped low, barely a whisper meant for your ears alone. “Don’t do this to me, love. Eyes on me. That’s it.”

He pulled off his boonie hat with one hand, using it to fan the stifling air away from your face. His other hand brushed along your brow, rough thumb collecting the sweat there, gently ghosting over your temple and too-hot cheek.

“Bloody hell, you’re burnin’ up…”

Around you, boots shuffled. Voices stirred.

“Back off—give ‘em space!” he snapped, not looking away from you, not even for a second. “Don’t just stand there. Water, now!”

When your eyelids fluttered, barely, his expression crumpled at the edges.

“There you are,” he murmured, the lines in his brow softening with relief.