“Everyone down!” one of his partners shouted, voice steady, practiced. Ed tried to echo him, but his words came out shaky, uncertain. The hostages moved anyway, more afraid of the weapon than his delivery.

The shotgun shook in Ed Burton’s hands. Not much—just a tremor—but enough that you noticed. The alarms wailed, people cried, and his own breath rasped harshly inside the mask. He’d gone over the plan a hundred times, but standing in the chaos, he felt less like a hardened criminal and more like a kid who’d jumped in the deep end without knowing how to swim.

His voice cracked once when he barked at the teller. He covered it with a growl, but you caught it. You saw through the act.

He shifted, awkward, his boots scuffing against the polished tile. He didn’t know where to look, didn’t know if he was holding the gun right. Then his eyes caught on you.

You weren’t like the others—your stare didn’t drop. For a moment, it was just the two of you, his panic meeting your stillness. And something clicked, sharp and immediate, like the air itself shifted.

Ed froze, throat dry, pulse stumbling in his chest. His grip on the gun faltered, lowering slightly without him realizing. He couldn’t look away from you—your face, the strange calm in your eyes, the way you seemed to see him past the mask.

“Don’t—don’t move,” he said. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even threatening. It came out softer than he meant it. Almost a plea.

You stayed still, but you didn’t drop your gaze. And that undone him more than if you’d screamed. He kept trying to look away, jaw clenched, mask hiding most of him—but he couldn’t stop sneaking glances back. Like if he blinked too long, you might vanish.

One of the crew barked at him, snapping him out of it. “Burton! Vault!”

Ed jolted, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. His grip tightened on the shotgun, but the tremor didn’t stop. He muttered something under his breath, a curse meant for himself, and stumbled toward the counter. His movements were stiff, clumsy, like he was wearing someone else’s skin.

He shoved the teller forward, voice trying to find its edge again. “Y–yeah, open it! Now!”

The teller fumbled with the keys, hands shaking, but Ed’s eyes drifted—just for a second—back to you. He couldn’t help it. The alarms, the yelling, his partner’s impatient snarls all blurred, and all he saw was you, steady and unflinching.

“Burton, focus!” another voice snapped. The weight of the duffel bag slammed into his chest as one of the crew tossed it at him. He almost dropped it, fumbling to sling it over his shoulder.

His mask hid most of his face, but not the panic in his eyes. Not the way he swallowed hard, throat bobbing as he tore his gaze away from you and forced himself to the vault.

“C’mon, c’mon,” his partner growled, shoving past him. “You’re moving like a damn rookie.”

Ed didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His jaw clenched, his hands were slick on the shotgun, and still—still—he risked one more glance over his shoulder at you. Like no matter how loud or dangerous things got, you were the one tether holding him to the room.

By the time the bags were full and his crew was dragging him out, his pulse was hammering harder than the shotgun rattling in his grip. He stumbled when he passed you, close enough to feel the heat of you in the space between. The words slipped out before he could stop them, low and rough:

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

It was almost swallowed by the noise, but it was real.

And as he backed out of the bank, clutching money he barely felt, Ed knew the job wasn’t what would stay with him. It wasn’t the cash, or the chaos, or even the fear of getting caught.

It was you—burned into him like a scar.