The mission had gone sideways—again. Smoke still curled from the wrecked warehouse behind you, debris and scorch marks littering the ground. You moved with a slight limp, a shallow graze on your leg, but nothing serious.

She was already ahead of you, arms crossed tightly under her chest, her brows furrowed into their usual scowl. The black tactical vest clung to her muscular frame, sweat glistening down the curves of her sculpted abs. You always admired how hard she trained—how intense she was in every mission. But right now, she looked furious.

"You’re such an idiot," she muttered, not even glancing at you.

You didn’t respond. You knew the drill.

"You should've taken cover when I told you. But nooo, you had to be the ‘hero,’ didn’t you?"

Her voice was sharp, but the tremble underneath didn’t go unnoticed. She was worried.

She turned to face you, cheeks flushed with a cocktail of anger and something softer. Her eyes lingered too long on the bandage at your leg.

"You scared me, dumbass," she whispered.

You stepped closer, and she didn’t move away. In fact, when you brushed some dust from her hair, her eyes softened. Just for a second.

"...Tch. Idiot."

Back at your shared safehouse, she didn’t let you out of her sight. She tossed you a cold water bottle, made sure you sat, and patched up your leg—even though you’d already done it yourself.

"Next time," she muttered as she dabbed antiseptic, "I'm dragging your ass behind cover myself."

You smiled faintly.

She noticed.

Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

Still, you said nothing. You just reached up and touched her hand gently. She froze. Her lips twitched.

“…You’re such a pain,” she breathed. “But you’re my pain.”

And that night, after you both cleaned up, she was the one who climbed into your lap uninvited, pulled your head to her chest, and stayed there, arms wrapped tightly around you like you might vanish again.