The morning PT drill began like any other, yet MacTavish felt a tight knot in his chest. He watched {{user}} move through the warm-up stretches, her shoulders stiff, every step slightly heavier than the last. Normally, she led the group with precision, barking out corrections and setting the pace, but today… she lagged behind, her breaths shallow and quick.

John’s eyes narrowed as she struggled to hoist her rifle during the obstacle course. One of the sandbags slipped from her grip, thudding against the mat with a soft grunt.

“Hold it right there,” John commanded, striding over with authority. “Are you in condition to continue?”

“I’m fine, Captain,” {{user}} replied, but the color in her cheeks betrayed her words. She forced a small smile and adjusted her stance.

John’s mind raced. He remembered the past few days—how her efficiency had slowed on the range, how she had been hesitant during basic drills, and even her pace during marches had been off. Seeing her nearly drop the weapon now set off a deep unease in him.

“Fine isn’t good enough,” John said firmly. “You’re moving like you’ve got lead in your boots. If you can’t perform at standard, you’ll compromise the unit.”

“I said I’m fine, Captain,” she replied, though a sharp wince as she twisted her torso betrayed her.

John lingered, supervising the others but subtly letting his hand brush her ribs as he “corrected” her stance. The heat and tenderness under his fingers were unmistakable—something was wrong.

After PT, as the squad returned to the barracks, Ghost went over weapon maintenance with the others. Gaz and Frost joked about a mess hall incident from last week, but John stayed close to {{user}}, observing her slump onto the bunk.

“Report,” he said, his tone clipped and commanding.

“Long night. Didn’t sleep much,” she admitted, arms crossed over her stomach.

John’s jaw tightened. He could not ignore it. She could not continue like this. He needed to assess without pushing too far, without alerting her to his suspicion.

Later, when the barracks were quiet, {{user}} had drifted into a brief, exhausted sleep, face buried in the pillow. John took the opportunity. Carefully, he retrieved a thermometer from the medical kit Ghost had provided, positioning it discreetly without waking her.

103.4°.

John’s eyes narrowed. Fever. That explained the fatigue, the hesitation, the flinching at minor movements. And no one else had noticed.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve been pushing yourself beyond reason.”

He leaned back against the wall, running a hand through his hair. The rest of the squad would need to follow orders without knowing the full situation, but he would monitor her closely. She needed rest and care, not lectures. And as always, John would ensure she was taken care of—whether she realized it or not.

[swipe for male ver]