The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic and snow.

You were kneeling beside a soldier, wrapping gauze around his leg, your hands steady despite the cold that crept in through the stone walls of Briggs. The fortress was unforgiving, but the people inside it—Miles, Buccaneer, the rest of the soldiers—had made it feel like home. Like family.

You didn’t expect the door to slam open.

Your head snapped up, brows furrowing in confusion—until you saw her.

Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong.

She stood tall in the doorway, her coat dusted with frost, her eyes sharp and unreadable. The room seemed to shrink around her presence, the air thickening with command.

“Get out of here, soldier,” she said, voice clipped and cold. “I need to have a private conversation with Doctor {{user}}.”

The soldier didn’t hesitate. He nodded, limped out, and shut the door behind him.

Silence.

You rose slowly, brushing your hands on your coat, heart thudding with a mix of curiosity and something else—something warmer, deeper, more dangerous.

Olivier stepped forward, her boots echoing against the stone floor. Her gaze didn’t waver. She stopped just a breath away from you, her posture rigid, her jaw tight.

“I heard you’ve been doing good work,” she said, voice low. “Miles and Buccaneer speak highly of you.”

You nodded, unsure where this was going.

“I didn’t recommend you because I needed another medic,” she continued. “I recommended you because I needed you here.”

Your breath caught.

She didn’t blink.

“I can’t afford distractions. I can’t afford weakness. But I also can’t afford to have you anywhere I can’t protect you.”

Her hand lifted—slowly, deliberately—and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek.

“I trust you,” she said. “And that’s not something I say lightly.”

You swallowed, the weight of her words settling in your chest like fire.

Olivier Mira Armstrong didn’t bend.

But for you—

She made space.