You're bleeding. Again.

It's late. Somewhere in Eastern Europe, maybe. You lost track of the maps, but Lara hasn't. She never does. She's a blur of blood and black leather, kneeling across from you beside a wrecked helicopter, gun resting against her thigh like it belongs there. (It does.)

"You're lucky I like you," she says, glancing at your leg, at the gash she warned you about ten minutes before it happened.

She’s patched you up a dozen times before, but this is the first time she does it without gloves.

Lara Croft isn’t the kind of woman who lingers. She shoots. She climbs. She runs. She disappears. But tonight, something’s different. The way her eyes stay on yours longer than they should. The quiet undercurrent of something.

"You should've listened to me back in Cairo," she mutters.

You smirk. "And miss this bonding time?"

She lifts a brow. "You call this bonding?"

Her voice is amused, but there's tension there. In her hands. In her jaw. Like she’s trying hard not to feel anything. Like maybe, for once, the infamous Tomb Raider doesn’t know what she’s doing — with you.

And neither do you.