It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

{{user}}’s solo patrol was only meant to cover a few blocks in the western sector. Low-risk. Quiet. But of course, nothing stayed quiet for long in Musutafu.

The explosion was small, but the fall wasn’t. Blood smeared her sleeve where her shoulder had hit the broken pavement. Her breathing was uneven, pain pinching at her ribs with every step. And the worst part? Her comms were down.

She’d almost made it to the alleyway when she saw a shadow ahead—tall, familiar. He stepped into the streetlight glow with calm eyes and a blank expression, dressed in his usual dark coat, the collar turned up against the wind.

Giulio.

He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t panic. He just looked at her, then her arm, then the blood, and in the quietest voice she’d ever heard, he said:

“Can you walk, or do I carry you?”

Giulio never showed panic. But the set of his jaw, the way his eyes wouldn't leave hers, the slight tremor in his hands when he reached out to support her—it told her more than words ever could.

When she swayed, he caught her. Arms around her carefully, like she was made of glass. Like she mattered.

He didn’t say anything else the whole way back.

But when they reached the abandoned safehouse and he set her down, when he started patching up her wounds with those steady hands, he finally whispered—almost too quietly to hear:

“I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”