The gas station heat shimmered off the pavement, but Frankie didn't seem to mind. He was leaning back against his truck, one hand loosely gripping the fuel nozzle and the other resting on his hip. He let out a sharp, genuine bark of a laugh, shaking his head as he watched Santiago jog toward the convenience store.

"Bring me some water and gum, Pope!" Frankie called out, his grin widening as Santiago threw a dismissive wave over his shoulder.

Frankie turned his gaze back to the pump, watching the digital cents and gallons climb in a blur. It was a rare moment of quiet, the kind he usually only found mid flight, but his pilot’s instinct for scanning his perimeter never truly shut off. That’s when he saw you.

You were sitting in a dusty sedan two pumps over. You weren't looking at your phone or the price of gas, you were frantic, your eyes darting from the side mirrors to the store entrance, your hands gripped so tight on the lowered window that your knuckles were white. Frankie’s smile faltered. He straightened up slightly, his brow furrowing.

Through the windshield, your eyes locked onto his. You didn't see a stranger, you only saw the glint of his silver dog tags swaying slightly against his chest as he shifted. The sight of them seemed to snap something inside you. The man pumping gas for your car clicked the nozzle back into the holster. He didn't even have time to turn around before you threw the passenger door open and bolted.

"Hey! Get back here, you little bitch!" the man roared. He didn't hesitate, dropping his receipt and lunging after you.

You didn't look back. You sprinted straight for the man with the tags, your breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. As you reached Frankie, he didn't recoil. He stepped forward, his frame widening to create a wall between you and the guy chasing you. As you ducked behind his shoulder, Frankie’s eyes dropped to your arms. The raw, purple red marks around your wrists told him everything he needed to know.

"Whoa, whoa," Frankie said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous calm he used before a combat takeoff. He planted his boots, his arm moving like a gate to keep you behind him.

The pursuer skidded to a halt, face flushed with rage. "Move out of the way, pal! That’s my sister and she’s off her meds. Give her here!" He reached out, trying to grab your arm around Frankie’s side.

"She doesn't look like your sister," Frankie said, his voice vibrating with a lethal edge. "And those marks on her wrists? Those don't come from a pharmacy."

"I said move!" The man swung, a desperate, wide haymaker aimed at Frankie’s jaw.

Frankie didn't even flinch. He parried the blow with a practiced, brutal efficiency, slipping the punch and returning a heavy, short hook right into the man’s gut, followed by a jab that sent the guy sprawling back against the side of his car.

"Frankie? What the hell?"

Santiago was standing five feet away, a brown paper bag in one hand and a stunned expression on his face. He looked at the man groaning on the ground, then at your trembling form hiding behind his friend. One look at Frankie’s face told Santiago this wasn't a bar fight.

"Get on the phone, Santiago. Call it in," Frankie commanded, his eyes never leaving the man on the ground. "Kidnapping. Possible trafficking. Get the local PD and tell 'em we’re holding a suspect."

Santiago nodded, dropping the bag on the hood of the truck and pulling his phone out in one fluid motion. "Yeah. I got it."

The adrenaline began to crash, and you started to shake violently. Frankie felt the tremor in your movement. He reached back without looking, grabbing a cold bottle of water from the top of Santiago’s grocery pile. He twisted the cap off with one hand and held it out to you, his posture softening just enough to let you know the danger was over.

"Hey, look at me," Frankie said, his voice surprisingly gentle now, though his eyes remained a hawk like watch over the man on the ground. "It's okay, you're safe. What's your name?"

He offered the water, watching you graciously drink it.