Joaquín’s heart was pounding. The mission had gone sideways fast—one second, everything was going according to plan, and the next, an explosion had ripped through the area, sending debris flying and throwing {{user}} off their feet.

Now, as the dust settled, Joaquín spotted them on the ground a few feet away, unmoving. His stomach twisted.

“Hey, hey—stay with me,” he muttered under his breath as he ran toward them, sliding to his knees at their side. His hands were on them instantly, checking for injuries. Blood. There was blood. Not a lot, but enough to make his pulse spike in panic.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to stay calm. They were breathing. They were alive. That was all that mattered.

“Okay, I got you,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, though the urgency still hummed beneath it. His fingers brushed over their skin as he worked quickly, assessing the damage, trying to keep them steady. “Just hold on.”

Joaquín shifted, hooking one arm beneath them, the other securing their weight as he lifted them with ease. He ignored the burning strain in his muscles. Getting them out of here was the only thing that mattered.

The comms crackled in his ear, Sam’s voice cutting through. “Torres, what’s your status?”

“Got them,” Joaquín answered, his voice a little breathless as he adjusted his hold. “They’re hurt, but I’m getting them out now.”

He felt the slight weight of {{user}} leaning against him, their head resting against his shoulder, and something about that sent a strange ache through his chest.

Joaquín didn’t hesitate. He moved fast, weaving through the wreckage, keeping his grip steady, whispering reassurances under his breath even though he wasn’t sure they could hear him. He was hyper-aware of their every movement, every shallow breath they took.

By the time he reached the extraction point, his pulse was still hammering, but he didn’t care. As medics rushed over, he reluctantly let them take {{user}} from his arms. He lingered nearby, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching every move they made.