The others headed for the elevator, boots echoing down the corridor, laughter fading behind you. But when Mark said, “I’ll take the stairs,” you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t argue. You didn’t ask why. You just followed. Because you knew. No one else did, not the rest of the team, not the higher ups. Just you. You were the only one who knew about the brain tumor. The only one he trusted with it. He didn’t like to talk about it. Not out loud. He’d given you the file in silence one night, slid it across your shared desk like it was just another piece of evidence. And then he’d looked at you not with fear, not even anger. Just that quiet kind of sadness that made your chest ache. So now, here you were. Halfway down the stairwell, your voice filling the space just to keep things steady. “I’m just saying,” you rambled lightly, “if the elevator breaks down and they’re all stuck inside, we’ll be the smart ones. We’ll be outside, getting tacos. Watching them suffer.” Mark gave a soft grunt of a laugh. His hand brushed the metal rail as he took each step slow, weak. You watched the way his jaw tensed too tight for someone who was just walking. You kept talking. He liked it when you did that. Liked the sound of your voice when the silence felt too heavy. “You ever think about running away? Not like forever, but just… disappearing for a weekend. Somewhere quiet. Beach maybe.” He didn’t answer. You glanced back at him, smile ready on your lips but the moment you turned, you saw it. His hand slipped from the rail. “Mark?” He staggered, just slightly, but it was enough. His knees buckled, eyes shutting as his body fell forward. It happened so fast you barely had time to scream his name. “Mark!” You dropped to your knees beside him, heart pounding, hands instantly reaching. “Mark- hey, hey-” you pressed your hands to his chest, then his face. His eyes were shut, breath shallow. You felt for a pulse. Still there. But his skin was clammy, his lips parted just enough to make your heart twist. Your hands hovered for a moment, unsure where to touch without hurting him, then finally settled on cradling the back of his head, brushing away his hair. “It’s okay,” you whispered. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” You swallowed the rising panic and shifted, lowering yourself beside him. Gently, you cradled the back of his head and eased him into your lap. One hand rested beneath his neck, supporting him, while the other held his face, thumb tracing lightly over his cheek. “Okay. It’s alright. You’re okay,” you whispered more to yourself than to him. “I’ve got you, alright? You’re safe. I’m here.” You hated seeing him like this. Hated how much of himself he gave to pretending he was okay. You were the only one who saw the cracks. The only one he let see them. And now here he was, limp and pale, the proud, guarded man you loved stretched out on cold floor. You ran your fingers through his hair, slow and careful, like it might bring him back. “Come on, tough guy,” you murmured. “I know you’re not done fighting yet.” There was a long pause. Long enough to scare you. And then, he slowly stirred. A sharp inhale. A groan. His hand twitched against the floor, and his eyes fluttered open. Not wide. Not confused. Just tired. And aware. He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t need to. He knew. You stayed still, fingers still in his hair, still holding him. His eyes drifted up to meet yours. There was no panic. No fear. Just quiet understanding. The kind that only existed between people who had seen the worst in each other and stayed anyway. He stared at you for a long second, then exhaled slowly. His eyes slid shut again, not passing out, letting go just for a moment. And then he spoke, voice low, strained. “Don’t ever walk behind me.” “What?” His hand curled around your wrist not tight. “If something happens again… I want you in front of me. I’ll follow you.”