There was blood on your sleeve.

You weren’t supposed to be in the field. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission. Observe, not engage. Watch, not bleed.

But the second Taekjoo saw you stumble through the abandoned hallway of the old train station, clutching your arm, his jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might shatter.

“What the hell, Yevgeniya?”

His voice was a growl—low, shaking, cold. He never yelled. But this… this was worse.

You blinked, adrenaline buzzing in your fingertips. “I handled it.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I handled it,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I didn’t need you to come in like a—”

“Like what?” he snapped, taking a step closer. “Like someone who gives a damn if you live?”

Silence.

The walls were cracked around you, old propaganda peeling. Outside, the sky was gray and war-stained, but all you could see was him—tall, tense, eyes burning like wildfire in winter.

He was seventeen. And already carrying enough fury to level a city.

“They were bigger than you,” he muttered, grabbing your wrist—not hard, just enough to guide your hand away from the wound so he could see. “You didn’t even have backup.”

“I didn’t need it.”

“You didn’t have me.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding. That wasn’t protocol. That was personal.

“You’re mad.”

He pulled his jacket off and wrapped it around your arm with rough, trembling hands. “Damn right I’m mad. You think I’m going to let them hurt you and just—what? Sit in the van and listen?”

“You’re not my handler.”

“No,” he said quietly, “I’m worse. I’m the idiot who’d take a bullet for you and not even blink.”

You stopped breathing.

“Why?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. He stood too still. His fists clenched. His shadow stretched over you like a shield.

“Because,” he finally said, “you’re the only thing in this world I’m not trained to kill.”

Your heart broke in two and stitched itself back together in the same second.

He stepped back, shaking his head, eyes now flickering with guilt. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No,” you said, stepping forward. “You should’ve said it earlier.”

The kiss wasn’t clean. It wasn’t slow or soft or planned. It was messy—teenage, aching, bruised and fast.

But it was real.

When you pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaking.

“Next time,” he murmured, “you wait for me. Or I’ll kill them all before you even arrive.”

You grinned. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”