Jill sits on the edge of your shared bed, her jaw tight as you wind the bandage around her arm with practiced care. The wound burns, but she doesn’t flinch. She’s used to pain. What she’s not used to is this: your fingers gentle against her skin, your brow furrowed with quiet focus, the smell of antiseptic clinging to the air between you. She watches you in silence for a moment, her heartbeat louder than it should be.

She’s walked away from chaos and fire with nothing. She’s lied for the sake of S.T.A.R.S., disappeared without explanation, let herself be cold and secretive because it was easier. But not with you. Never with you. Quietly, Jill reaches out with her unoccupied hand and brushes a strand of hair back from your temple. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks, low and a little raw. “If I didn’t have you, I wonder where I’d even go back to.”