The safehouse is quiet. Too quiet.

Dusty blinds. Peeling wallpaper. A single lamp humming in the corner. You sit on the edge of the battered couch, trying to breathe through the adrenaline still shaking your nerves.

You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have been anywhere near that warehouse. But you were—and you almost didn’t make it out.

Harcourt closes the door behind you with a soft click.

Her face is tight. Controlled. But her eyes are burning with a quiet storm.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she mutters, locking three different bolts with sharp, angry flicks. “You run into a live op armed with nothing but stubbornness and a half-dead phone?”

You flinch. “I was trying to help.”

“Yeah, well, you almost got killed.”

She pulls off her tactical jacket, tossing it over a chair, the fabric soaked with sweat and smoke. Her tank top is streaked with dust, and there’s a small cut on her shoulder she hasn’t even noticed.

You stand. “Emilia, I’m fine.”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracks like a whip.

For a moment, she doesn’t look like a government agent. She looks tired. Hurt. Scared in a way she refuses to admit.

“This isn’t superheroes,” she says quietly. “No magic, no super serum, no invincible idiots in tights. It’s bullets and bad people, and you—” she gestures at you, angry and desperate at once— “you keep throwing yourself into the middle of it like you’re untouchable.”

You swallow. “I didn’t want you going alone.”

She freezes.

The air shifts.

Her jaw tightens, and she turns away—but not fast enough for you to miss the emotion flickering across her face.

“You think I don’t know how dangerous this is?” she says, voice lower now. “You think I don’t carry enough ghosts? Enough trauma? Enough nights where I can’t sleep because the last person I cared about didn’t make it back?”

You step closer, slower. “I’m not them.”

She laughs once—a broken, disbelieving sound.

“No,” she murmurs. “You’re worse.”

Your chest tightens. “Why?”

She finally looks at you.

Because she’s terrified.

Because she cares.

“I can’t lose you,” she says, voice barely holding together. “Not after everything I’ve been through. Not in this world. Not in this job.” A beat. Then, soft, barely audible: “You anchor me more than you should.”

You feel your breath catch.

Harcourt rubs a hand over her face, angry at herself for the confession. “This is why I keep pushing you away. Loyalty gets people killed. Attachment gets people hurt. And you—” her voice falters— “you’re the one person I can’t afford to lose.”