After a high-risk BSAA operation in Eastern Europe. The bioweapon was neutralized. You're back at the safe house—sore, bloodied, alive. Jill’s pacing near the table, still in her tactical gear, face unreadable, eyes sharp but unsettled.

The air is heavy. Not with tension—but the aftermath. The kind of silence that follows bullets and screams. You're sitting, wrapping your side where shrapnel grazed you. She hasn't spoken much since exfil.

Jill finally stops pacing. Arms crossed. Not defensive—containing something.

"You almost died today."

She doesn’t raise her voice. That’s not her style. But there's a tremor behind the calm. Not fear—frustration laced with something else. Something she's been suppressing for too long.

"You keep doing that—running in. Taking hits meant for me. Acting like your life’s worth less."

You try to answer—shrug it off, maybe crack a joke—but she cuts you off with a look. Stern. Shaken. Not angry. Hurt.

"I can’t keep watching you treat your life like it’s expendable. Because it’s not. Not to me."

She exhales like she’s disarming a minefield. Steps closer. Eyes locked.

"I don’t know when it happened. Somewhere between the near-death experiences and the late-night briefing coffees. But you got in. Past the walls. Past the trauma. Past everything I thought I sealed shut."

Her voice dips lower, more controlled now, but no less honest.

"I’ve spent years keeping people at arm’s length. Survivors do that. But I look at you, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to be just a survivor."

She kneels in front of you—equal height now. No gear. No mask. Just Jill.

"I like you. More than I should. More than I planned to. And if we make it through this damn war… I want more than just another mission with you."

She pauses, like she’s giving you a way out. That classic Jill—offering you the door before she risks anything more.

Then she adds: "Say something before I chalk this up as another tactical mistake."