The mission was over. Another alien threat reduced to ash, another scar burned into the city’s skyline. You stood at the edge of the crater, knuckles split, the taste of smoke thick in your throat. Dawn bled through the haze, painting the wreckage in dull gold. Behind you, Mark hauled himself out of a crumpled transport, wincing as he put weight on his leg. His uniform was torn, his hands scraped raw—but he was alive. Again. Because you hadn’t given the enemy a chance to do worse. You didn’t turn when he approached, but you felt it—the tension coiling off him, the frustration in every step. His boots crunched over broken concrete before stopping just behind you. Close enough that you could hear the hitch in his breath.

“You were supposed to let me handle that.”

His voice was low, rough-edged. Not anger—something worse. The same helpless irritation that always followed when you stepped in first. When you took the hit so he didn’t have to.

“I’m not a kid,” he snapped, sharper now. “I don’t need a shadow. I don’t need a damn—”

He cut himself off, exhaling hard, like the words were knives in his throat. Silence. Then, quieter, raw in a way that made your chest tighten:

“I don’t need a bodyguard.”

But he didn’t sound like he believed it. He sounded like he was trying to. Like every time you threw yourself between him and danger, it carved something out of him—his pride, his control, the illusion that he could protect himself. That he could protect you.

“But if something happened to you because of me…”

He didn’t finish. Didn’t have to. You still didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, between him and the ruin, like always.