The jet touched down hard enough to rattle Rex’s teeth, and he winced as he unbuckled his harness. His ribs ached, his right knuckle was split open again, and his costume smelled like ozone and burnt metal.

“Smooth landing, five stars,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as the ramp lowered with a hiss.

{{user}} walked off ahead, silent, still in gear, stained and scuffed up. Rex watched the back of their head for a beat longer than he meant to, jaw tight.

They hadn’t said a word since the fight ended.

Not on the jet. Not after the dust settled. Not when Rex—bloody, out of charges, adrenaline fried—had cracked some dumb joke about Mauler clones and got nothing in return.

Not even an eye roll.

That stung more than getting sucker punched by a cyborg.

Rex grabbed his gear bag and jogged to catch up, falling into step beside them like nothing was wrong. He could feel the tension coming off them. Thick, heavy. Like gravity.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, casual—but not too casual. He could play it cool. Always could. That was Rex.

But {{user}} didn’t stop.

Didn’t even say a damn thing.

He chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking to the deep gash across their shoulder. Bandaged now, but still soaked. The kind of wound that made you feel real. Weak. Too close.

“You could’ve died back there,” he said, quieter this time. Like if he didn’t say it too loud, it wouldn’t sound as desperate.

He stopped.

For a second, just a second, the mask slipped. His hands clenched, shaking just a little, the way they did when the adrenaline was gone and the fear had nowhere else to hide.

“I… I was scared, alright?” he said to the empty hallway. “When you went down—when you didn’t get back up right away—I didn’t know what the hell to do. Please, Please just talk to me.”