You weren’t supposed to get this close.

Now, you’re standing in a dimly lit safehouse, the weight of the mission pressing down on you both. Blood and dirt cling to your clothes, and the silence stretches like a taut wire ready to snap. You can feel his eyes on you always watching, always calculating.

“Take it off,” he says, voice low and rough.

You blink, turning toward him. “Excuse me?”

“The vest,” he clarifies. “You’re bleeding.”

Reluctantly, you pull off the tactical gear, your hands slower than they should be. His gaze never leaves you, dark eyes tracking every movement. You tell yourself it’s habit. But there’s something more in the way he watches you now. Something different.

You toss the vest to the side. “It’s not bad. Just a graze.”

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, stepping closer. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it. “Careless gets people killed.”

You tense at the words, bristling. “Careless? I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

“That’s not the point.” His gaze locks on yours, unrelenting. “Next time, you won’t be.”

There’s something in his tone. Anger, frustration, or maybe fear. You can’t tell. But it’s enough to make your chest tighten.

“You keep saying that like you care.” The words slip out before you can stop them.

He stills, shoulders rigid. For a long moment, he says nothing. Just watches you, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he speaks, voice quieter, rougher.

“I can’t afford to.”

The air between you feels heavier now, thick with things neither of you are saying. You swallow hard, breaking the silence. “So you do care.”

“Don’t.” The word is soft, a warning, but there’s no conviction behind it.

“Patch yourself up.” His voice is low, almost a murmur.

Then, quieter still, as if he’s saying it more to himself than to you

“Can’t watch you bleed again.”