The rain had turned the parking lot outside your apartment complex into a black mirror, reflecting sodium streetlights in oily smears. Rick sat in his truck for a full three minutes after killing the engine, knuckles white on the wheel, listening to the patter against the roof. He told himself he was just checking in—standard protocol after a mission went sideways. Bullshit. He’d driven straight here from the debrief, still in yesterday’s fatigues.

You’d been gone seventeen days. Seventeen days of radio silence punctuated by Waller’s clipped updates: Asset in play. Asset compromised. Asset extracted. Each one landed like a gut punch he refused to acknowledge until the last transmission confirmed wheels-up stateside. The worry he’d buried under layers of tactical compartmentalization clawed its way out, raw and ugly.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, boots leaving wet prints on concrete. Your door was the same dull green as always, number 4B slightly askew like it never quite settled right in the frame. He knocked once then waited, jaw tight, telling himself if you didn’t answer he’d walk away. Clean break. No mess.

The lock clicked. Door opened six inches. Your face appeared in the gap—bruised under one eye, hair damp from a shower, wearing an white tank top and sleep shorts.

“Flag,” you said, voice rough like you’d been screaming or crying or both. No surprise in it. Just tired recognition.

He didn’t wait for an invitation. Pushed the door wider with his shoulder, stepped inside, kicked it shut behind him. The apartment was dim, only the blue flicker of a muted television on the coffee table. Takeout containers on the counter. Your go-bag still half-unpacked by the couch.

You backed up a step. Not fear; just instinct. He tracked the movement, cataloged the hitch in your left leg, the way you favored your right side. His eyes dropped to the bandage peeking from under the hem of the tank top, low on your ribs.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “They said minor.”

“Minor’s relative.” You shrugged. “Bullet grazed. Nothing fancy.”

He closed the distance, hand lifted, his fingertips brushing the edge of the bandage through cotton. You didn’t flinch.

“You’re still bleeding through,” he said, low.

“Stopped an hour ago. Mostly.”

“Bullshit.” But there was no heat in it. Only something that lived under his ribs and never quite shut up when you were out of his sight.

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours. Breathed you in. Alive. Here. His fingers curled into the fabric at your hip, anchoring.

“I thought—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “Doesn’t matter.”

You just tilted your head, lips brushing the corner of his jaw. He kissed you like a man coming up for air after too long underwater—hard at first, desperate, teeth clacking, then slower, deeper, like he was trying to map every inch of your mouth with his tongue. You made a small sound and it snapped something loose in him.

Hands always careful with you. He walked you backward toward the bedroom, never breaking the kiss, one arm banded around your waist to keep weight off your injured side. Your back hit the wall outside the doorframe; he cushioned it with his palm behind your head. Kiss turned filthy; his free hand sliding under the tank top to trace the bandage, then higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed against your lips. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He peeled the tank top off you like it offended him, checking every new inch of skin revealed. The bruise blooming purple across your ribs. The graze stitched neat but angry red. A fresh scrape on your collarbone. He kissed each one.

You tugged at his belt. “Rick—”

“Easy.” He caught your wrists, pinned them gently above your head with one hand. “Stay still, sweetheart,” he murmured against you. “Let me take care of you.”

He dropped to his knees and pressed his face to your stomach and kissed the bandage again. Then lower, nosing along the waistband of your sleep shorts.