The argument had been stupid, something about who should’ve led the last run, or how you handled the volatile situation at the outpost. Words got sharp, tempers flared, and before you could throw another insult, Crane grabbed you by the collar and kissed you. Hard.

It wasn’t soft or planned; it was desperate, angry, and confusing as hell. When he pulled away, both of you just stared, breathless, speechless, unsure of what the hell had just happened. Then he left without a word.

Days passed. You didn’t see him. When you did, he’d find a way to turn in another direction, suddenly busy with patrols or radio calls.

Now, you were sitting at your workbench, sparks flying as you modified a weapon. The air smelled like metal and sweat. You didn’t hear him come in until his shadow fell over the table.

Crane stood there, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his voice awkwardly low. “You, uh… got a minute?”