The door slammed shut behind you. You and Claire stood there in silence, both panting, backs pressed to the wall of the abandoned safehouse. Rain poured outside. Your arms were scraped, blood was running down Claire’s temple, and both of your chests were heaving. “You okay?” she breathed.

You glanced down at your arm, winced. “Alive. Barely.” Claire pushed off the wall. “Come on. Sit.” She guided you toward a dusty table, grabbed the med kit from her pack, and opened it with one hand. The other was already reaching for your arm. “This’ll sting.”

“Go for it,” you muttered, voice hoarse. The alcohol soaked into the gauze and you hissed, muscles tensing. Claire’s hand was steady. Her eyes didn’t waver from your wound…until they did. She looked up, gaze flicking to your jaw, your lips. The space between you. You looked back. Her fingers brushed your wrist. That was it. That was the moment the tension finally snapped like a taut wire.

You swallowed. “You gonna keep staring or—”

“Shut up,” Claire muttered, cheeks flushed, biting the inside of her cheek. “You’re distracting.”

“I’m distracting?” She rolled her eyes and started bandaging your arm, a little too gently now. “Yeah. You are.” You reached up, touched the edge of a bruise on her cheekbone. “You bled for me.” Claire went still. “Guess you’re worth it,” she said softly, eyes not leaving yours. There was silence. Heavy. Hot. Your knees bumped under the table.

Neither of you pulled away. You leaned in first. Not fully — just close. Testing. Claire didn’t move back. Her fingers were still resting on your bandage. “Tell me to stop,” you whispered. She didn’t.