The night air cuts sharp as you push through the broken doorway, your flashlight beam slicing across the dust and rot of the abandoned house. You’d trailed him here quietly enough, careful to stay a few steps behind, timing your steps to the creak of his boots. He had told you to stay behind — ordered you, really — that this hunt was “too dangerous,” that he couldn’t risk you getting caught in the middle of it. And maybe you’d agreed with a tight-lipped nod, but you’d already known you were never going to listen.

You’re not sure when you lost him — second floor, maybe — but you know the exact moment he realizes you’ve followed.

“Son of a—” his voice cuts from down the hall, raw and sharp, followed by the sound of heavy boots pounding toward you. He rounds the corner, jaw tight, green eyes blazing under the dim swing of your flashlight.

“Are you kidding me?” The words come out like a growl, his hand shooting up to grip your arm, dragging you back against the peeling wallpaper. “I told you to stay behind. I told you this one wasn’t for you.”

His voice is low but furious, every syllable vibrating with anger barely leashed. His grip isn’t cruel, but it’s firm enough to remind you who you’re dealing with — a man whose whole life has been one long fight to keep the people he loves breathing.

You glare up at him, heart racing from the mix of adrenaline and anger. “You think I’m just gonna sit in some motel room twiddling my thumbs while you throw yourself into this alone? Forget it.”

“Damn it, that’s exactly what I wanted you to do,” he snaps, leaning in closer, the smell of leather and gun oil clinging to him, his breath warm and furious against your cheek. “Do you have any idea what’s in here? Do you even—”

The flashlight trembles slightly in your grip, not from fear of what lurks in the dark, but from the sheer force of him — the way his voice shakes with more than anger, the way you can see it plain as day: the terror he refuses to name.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice cracks, softer for just a breath before he hardens it again, swallowing down the fear, coating it in rage. “If something happened to you—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head like finishing the sentence would undo him.