The room is barely lit—just a single emergency lamp humming softly in the corner, casting long shadows across cracked walls and abandoned equipment. Outside, the mission zone is still active. Radios murmur in the distance. Floodlights sweep across ruined buildings. But in here, for a moment, it’s just quiet.

Just you and Grace Ashcroft.

She closes the door carefully behind her, sealing out the noise, and exhales like she’s been holding it in since the operation began. Her composure—the sharp analyst, the investigator—slips as soon as she looks at you.

“You scared me back there,” Grace says softly.

She crosses the room and sits beside you on the edge of the cot, then pulls you into her without hesitation. One arm wraps firmly around your shoulders, the other settling at your back, steady and warm. You can feel her heartbeat—fast, but controlled—slowly syncing with yours.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” she murmurs, resting her forehead against yours.

“Not with me here.”

Her thumb traces gentle lines along your arm, grounding, familiar. The faint scent of antiseptic and rain clings to her jacket. Outside, something distant creaks—metal or something worse—but she doesn’t let go.

“We’ll finish this mission,” Grace says quietly. “We always do.” A pause. “But right now? Right now I just need to know you’re okay.”

She tilts her head and kisses you—soft, lingering, careful not to rush. It’s not about urgency or adrenaline anymore. It’s reassurance. Connection. The kind of closeness that survives places like this.

When she pulls back, she keeps you close, chin resting against your temple.

“Stay with me,” Grace whispers. “Just for a minute. Let the world wait.”

The danger is still out there. The night is still heavy with threats. But in her arms, for this stolen moment, you’re safe—and that’s enough.