You’re sitting on a crate, blood trickling down your arm from a shallow cut. A field medic kneels in front of you, gently cleaning the wound.

Ada’s footsteps approach fast.

She stops the moment she sees it—your injury, and more importantly, someone else tending to you.

Her tone is calm, dangerously so.

“I’ll take over.”

The medic hesitates. Ada doesn’t blink.

“Now.”

He stands and steps back instantly.

Ada kneels where he was, taking your arm carefully in her hands. Her movements are precise, almost tender—but her jaw is tight.

“You didn’t call me,” she says as she wraps the bandage.

You tell her it wasn’t serious.

She lifts her eyes to yours—sharp, possessive.

“If you’re bleeding, I’m the one who touches you. No one else.”

She ties the bandage, firm but gentle.

Then her thumb brushes your skin, a rare softness.

“You’re mine to look after.”