“You could have died.”
“But I didn’t.”
His voice is low, steady, the kind of calm that belongs to men who’ve faced death often enough to stop fearing it. His hand rises halfway, stopping just short of my cheek. The distance between his fingers and my skin might as well be a live wire.
“You’re alive,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “The mission’s still viable. That’s what matters.”
The words are professional; the tone isn’t. There’s a rasp beneath them, a restrained warmth that hits harder than theconfession itself. My breath catches, and I don’t know if it’s from gratitude or something far more dangerous. The heat from his body brushes against me, close enough that I can feel the thrum of his pulse in the air between us.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. His hand lingers, the shadow of touch trembling on the edge of becoming real. The noise of the medical bay fades until there’s only the sound of breath—his and mine—intertwined, unspoken. Then he drops his hand, the spell breaking, professionalism snapping back into place.
“Get some rest, Carolina,” he murmurs.
No one else says it like that—each syllable precise, deliberate, as if the name itself belongs to him. Everyone else calls me Caro, quick and casual, but from his mouth it sounds different.
Intimate. Possessive.
The air holds the echo of it, and the room feels warmer for it.
"You matter," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than intended. "What happens to you matters, Flint. You're not just... you're not just a tool to complete the mission. You're a person, and you nearly died, and I—" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence.
I what?
Care about him?
Feel something for this man I met less than twelve hours ago?
I’m terrified by how much his survival means to me.
His hand completes its journey, cupping my cheek, thumb brushing along my cheekbone. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, and I lean into it before I can think better of it. Heat flickers between us—real, undeniable.
“I know,” he says quietly, eyes steady on mine. “I feel it too.”
“We just met.” The protest comes out softer than I intend, more breath than sound. I don’t move away.
“Doesn’t matter.” His thumb traces one more slow arc over my skin, grounding and electric all at once. “Combat warps time. A day out there feels like a lifetime. I’ve seen who you are when it counts—your courage, your instincts, your strength. And then…” His voice drops, roughening. “I almost watched you die. That changes things.”
I draw in a shaky breath, the air between us thick with everything we aren’t saying. The spark we’ve both tried to ignore hums like a live wire, impossible to untangle from the adrenaline still in our veins.
I could argue.
I could point out that adrenaline, proximity, and trauma are creating a false sense of connection.
I could be rational.
I could build the same walls I’ve lived behind for years, keep everything neat and safe and distant.
But I’m tired of being safe. Tired of being alone with ghosts that never stop whispering. Whatever this pull is between us, it feels too real to dismiss, like recognizing someone I’ve known in another life.
“After this is over,” I say, the words surprising me even as I speak them, “we figure out what this is. If it’s real, or just adrenaline and proximity messing with our heads.”
His eyes hold mine, steady and unreadable, but something warmer sparks underneath.
“Deal.” His thumb moves once more along my cheek, the faintest touch.
I think that will be the end of this moment, but his hand doesn't drop away. Instead, his fingers slide into my hair, cradling my head, and his eyes search mine—asking permission, giving me space to refuse.
I don't.
