Elena

The fire crackles softly, casting flickering shadows against the trees as I sit, watching Rafe silently tend to his wound. His face is set in stone, his movements sharp and deliberate as he wraps the bandage around his arm. He hasn’t spoken a word since we left the battlefield, and it’s driving me crazy.

I’m furious—at him, at myself, at the entire situation. The risky move I’d made had paid off, sure, but Rafe still took the brunt of it trying to shield me. I knew what I was doing; he didn’t need to throw himself into harm’s way.

Finally, I can’t stand the silence any longer. “You didn’t have to get hurt, you know. I had it handled.”

He pauses mid-wrap but doesn’t look up. “Handled?” he mutters, voice tight. “You call that handled?”

I glare at him, frustration bubbling over. “Yes, I do. I knew exactly what I was doing.”

He finishes tying the bandage with a rough tug, his eyes finally meeting mine. There’s fire in them, but it’s not the kind I’m used to. It’s something else—fear, anger, something darker simmering just beneath the surface. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

My heart thuds, but I refuse to back down. “But I didn’t, did I? We won, Rafe. It worked.”

“You got lucky,” he snaps, his voice harsher than I’ve ever heard it. “That wasn’t a calculated risk—it was reckless.”

“Reckless?” I shoot back, standing up and moving toward him. “You’re the one who threw yourself into the middle of that fight to protect me! I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t have to ask!” He stands too, looming over me, his broad shoulders tense, eyes blazing. “Do you think I’m just going to stand by and let you get hurt?”

“I’m not some fragile thing that needs protecting,” I snap, stepping closer. “I know what I’m doing. I’m not going to stand back and watch you take a hit that was meant for me.”

His jaw tightens, and for a second, I think he’s going to snap back with another angry retort. But instead, he just exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Elena. You don’t get it.”

“Get what?” I demand, my voice softer now, but still simmering with frustration. I’m confused, caught between anger and something else—a flicker of understanding that unsettles me.

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There’s a crack in his voice, just barely audible, and for a heartbeat, I see it: he’s not just angry. He’s afraid. He doesn’t want to watch me risk myself like that because… he cares.

The realization hits me hard, and my frustration falters, leaving something softer in its place.

“I’m not going to let you die either, Rafe,” I say, my voice dropping, all the fire from before melting into something quieter, something rawer.

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides, and for a moment, we just stand there, staring at each other, the air between us thick and charged. Then, without warning, he reaches for me, his hand gripping my arm and pulling me closer.

Rafe

The moment I pull her close, I know I’m past the point of no return.

All the fear, all the anger that’s been roiling inside me, it spills over like a dam breaking. I can still see her in my mind, throwing herself into that fight without a second thought, risking herself in ways that make my blood run cold. She’s fearless, and it terrifies me.

I’m not used to feeling this way. I’m used to holding my emotions in check, staying calm, keeping everything under control. But with her—seeing her take those risks, feeling that surge of helplessness—I can’t hold it back anymore. I can’t pretend that the thought of her getting hurt doesn’t rip me apart.

Before I can think better of it, my lips are on hers.

It’s not gentle, not careful. It’s fierce and desperate, as if kissing her can somehow make her understand, make her see what I can’t put into words. She gasps against my mouth, but instead of pulling back, her hands grab at my shirt, tugging me closer, meeting my intensity with her own. There’s fire between us, crackling and electric, turning all that anger and fear into something else—something raw, something that’s been simmering between us for too long.

When we finally pull back, both of us are breathless. Her hands are still fisted in my shirt, my own hand tangled in her hair. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression that I haven’t seen before. Something that makes my heart twist, sharp and aching.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” I mutter, my voice rough, barely above a whisper. I don’t know if I’m asking her or begging her.

She looks up at me, and her face softens, the fire in her gaze cooling into something warmer. “Same goes for you,” she murmurs, her voice a quiet echo of my own.

We stand there, still close, both of us breathing hard. I can’t explain it, this need to protect her, to keep her safe at any cost. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, and it’s only now, standing here with her, that I realize how far gone I am.

I try to say something, try to find the words to explain the fear that’s clawed at me all day, the raw need to keep her safe. But nothing comes. So I let it go, hoping she understands anyway.

And as she takes a small step back, her hand lingering on my chest for a moment before she lets go, I think maybe she does.

The silence between us is heavy, but not tense. It’s a silence that holds everything we didn’t say, all the words caught in our throats. There’s no resolution, no promises that things will be different next time. But I know one thing: I’ll keep throwing myself in front of danger if it means she’s safe, even if she’ll never understand why.

For now, though, that unspoken understanding, that shared look… it’s enough.