It started out like everything else with him did—half a smirk, a sarcastic comment, a joke he didn’t quite mean. He doesn’t do feelings. Not real ones. Not since Rachel. That part of him—the part that believed in forever, in letting someone see everything—it died with her. And maybe he kept pretending like he didn’t care. Like nothing touched him. But that wasn’t true.

Not when you looked at him like he was more than what Manticore made him to be. Like the things in his file didn’t scare you. Like he didn’t scare you. The night you found him after a mission went to hell, he’d been on the rooftop, jaw clenched, knuckles bloodied, trying to outrun the guilt crawling under his skin.

You didn’t ask him to explain. You just sat beside him, close, warm. Said nothing for the longest time. “Maybe I am just a weapon.”

“You’re not a monster, Alec.” No hesitation. No pity. Just that calm, unwavering certainty that made something in his chest ache.

He wanted to laugh. Or run. Or break something just to feel in control again. Instead, he looked at you. And that was it.

It’s a war inside him. Because he needs you. Not in the way he usually means that word—fast, physical, temporary. He needs you in the terrifying, real, permanent way. And that? That’s dangerous.

Because when you laugh, his heart skips. When you patch him up, his walls crack. And when you touch him—gentle, unafraid—he thinks, God help me, I love you.

But he doesn’t say it.

Instead, he throws you a cocky grin, keeps it light. “Careful, you’re gonna make me soft.”

You roll your eyes, call him out on his bullshit like always, but you lean just a little closer. And he thinks, maybe you already know. Maybe you feel it, too.

And one of these nights—when he finally lets the truth slip past his lips—it won’t be smooth or pretty.

It’ll sound like a confession, a warning, and a plea all at once. “You’re it for me, okay? So don’t run. Don’t leave. ‘Cause if you do—I’m not sure I’ll come back from it this time.”

But for now, he just watches you.