The warehouse was burning behind them, the smell of smoke clinging to their clothes as Emilia Harcourt limped out into the night air. She didn’t complain. She never complained. But (Y/N) saw the way she pressed a hand to her ribs, the way she kept her breathing controlled and shallow.

The mission had gone sideways. Then exploded. Then tried to kill them twice more.

Yet somehow, they made it out alive.

Harcourt dropped onto the hood of the getaway van, exhaustion leaking through her usually unbreakable exterior. Her blonde hair was dusted with ash, her jacket torn at the sleeve. She looked like she had fought the entire world and refused to fall.

(Y/N) stood a few feet away, watching her cautiously. Concern wasn’t something Harcourt accepted easily.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered without lifting her head.

“Like what?” (Y/N) asked.

“Like I almost died.”

“You did almost die.”

Harcourt finally looked up, blue eyes sharp despite the pain. “I didn’t. That’s the important part.”

It wasn’t that simple. During the firefight, when a blast knocked Harcourt off her feet, (Y/N) had run toward her without thinking — straight through gunfire, smoke, and collapsing metal. It was reckless. Maybe stupid.

But losing her had felt worse than dying.

Harcourt had seen the way they looked at her afterward. Not fear. Not regret.

Something else.

Now, sitting on the van under the flickering streetlight, she exhaled slowly.

“You should’ve saved yourself,” she said quietly. “You had a clear exit.”

“So did you.”

Harcourt huffed — almost a laugh. “Yeah. Well. Guess we’re both idiots.”

There was a long silence. Not uncomfortable, just… real. The kind of silence only survivors shared.

Harcourt’s voice softened — something she rarely allowed.

“You didn’t have to come back for me.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I know.”

She looked at them again, no coldness, no walls — just honesty stripped bare.

“But you did,” she said. “And the truth is…” She swallowed once, steadying herself. “I didn’t fight this hard just to lose you either.”

The words hung between them, fragile and powerful all at once.

For Harcourt, that was a confession. A choice.

Not forced by a mission or duty. Not made in panic or desperation.

A choice she made after everything tried to kill them.

(Y/N) stepped closer, not touching, just close enough that she didn’t have to raise her voice.

“Emilia… we survived.”

Harcourt nodded once.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “And I’m choosing you to survive with.”