⸻ ⋆. ❞
he filled the doorway like a tank — broad shoulders, arms like stacked corded steel, veins up his forearms that looked more like topography than anatomy. his face was angular, tanned, with a lazy smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“this where the magic happens?” he asked, stepping in like he owned the room.
”sergeant first class —”
“just barrage.”
you raised an eyebrow. “that’s your real name?”
“i prefer sir or your favorite patient, depending on how the day’s going.”
you didn’t smile.
”let’s stick with barrage then.”
you pointed to the table. “shirt off. face down. let’s see the damage.”
and to your surprise—he obeyed.
“yes, ma’am. you’re gonna touch me like that, sweetheart… at least buy me dinner after.”
he stretched out on the table, muscles tense beneath your hands as you examined the wreckage of what had once been a pristine shoulder.
“rpg,” he muttered, eyes closed. “didn’t kill me. should’ve.”
you didn’t answer. your fingers pressed lightly at the injury site. he hissed.
“still sore.”
”still healing,” you corrected. “you push it too soon, you’ll never get your range back.”
he gave a dry laugh. “don’t need range to pull a trigger.”
”you need range to carry your own damn gear.”
that got him quiet. and the next session, he showed up early.
he kept coming back, three times a week.
even when his commander offered to transfer him to the military hospital.
the jokes got filthier. the touches lingered — too long to be professional.
he’d grunt when you worked the knots out of his bicep, and you’d feel his eyes on you—burning. he called you doc sometimes. or missy. always with that cocky little grin.
he liked watching you work. you didn’t like how big he was — how hard it was for you. he made it harder on purpose sometimes. just to hear you curse under your breath.
you didn’t treat him like he was fragile. didn’t treat him like a hero either. you just expected him to heal—and that pissed him off more than he cared to admit.
because healing meant going back. and something in him wasn’t sure he wanted to go back.
it was late. facility nearly empty.
he came in limping again. you crossed your arms.
”you re-injured yourself.”
“yeah.” a pause. “got into it with someone. not worth your time.”
you approached cautiously, eyes on his posture. “you’re bleeding.”
“i know.”
”i should call someone.”
“you are my someone.”
he looked up—no smirk. just eyes.
“i think about you,” he said quietly. “too much. i know it’s not right. i know the rules. but I’d take a bullet for you without blinking. you believe that?”
you did. and that was the problem.
because somewhere between the stretching routines and the sarcastic grins, you’d started thinking about him too. his hands. his voice. the way he called you sweetheart like it meant something only you could understand.
”you’re my patient,” you said softly.
he stood.
“and if I wasn’t?”
you couldn’t move.
“say the word, and i’ll find a different therapist tomorrow. but don’t lie to me—not after the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”
silence.
heat.
you blinked.
”barrage—”
“yes, ma’am?”