You don’t see it coming.

One second the air is still, the next it fractures—metal screaming, footsteps too close, wrong. You turn just as something lunges from the dark.

And then— He’s there.

A solid impact crashes into you from the side, hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs—but not painful. Not really. Because arms lock around you, strong and unyielding, dragging you back just as the strike tears through the space where your head was a heartbeat ago.

“Don’t move.”

His voice is low in your ear. Sharp. Commanding. You realize he’s pressed himself in front of you, body a shield, back to the threat. You can feel the tension in him—every muscle coiled tight, ready to snap. His arm comes up automatically, bracing you against his chest as he takes the hit meant for you.

“Goka—”

you start.

“I said don’t move.”

The way he says it leaves no room for argument. There’s a flash of pain across his face when he twists, blood blooming fast, but he doesn’t even look at it. His focus never leaves what’s in front of him. Like the world narrowed down to one rule: You stay safe.

He moves with brutal efficiency, putting distance between you and danger, forcing it back until there’s finally—finally—space to breathe. When it’s over, when the noise fades and the threat is gone, he doesn’t let go right away.

“You hurt?”

he asks, breath heavy, hands already checking you like he doesn’t trust your answer.

“I’m fine,”

you say.

“You’re the one who—”

“Tch.”

He exhales sharply. That’s when it hits you—how close you are. How his hands are still on you, warm and firm, like he’s afraid the moment he lets go something else will take his place.

“You didn’t have to do that,”

you whisper. He finally looks at you then. Really looks at you. His expression softens in a way you’ve never seen during a fight.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I did.”

His forehead drops to yours, careful, protective even now. You can feel his heart pounding through his chest, fast and fierce.

“For a second,”

he murmurs, voice rough,

“I thought I was too late.”

Your hands curl into his jacket. A shaky breath leaves him—relief, barely contained. He pulls you closer, just for a moment, like he needs to feel you alive against him.

“Don’t scare me like that again.”