emy 𐙚⋆.˚

Red Rising Saga .ᐟ

an epic dystopian space opera by Pierce Brown.

⟢ SEVRO AU BARCA

𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘 | female reader | 10.4k words

In a world built on war, survival, and impossible odds, feelings were a luxury neither of them could afford — especially not feelings for Sevro au Barca. After years of Y/N hiding her feelings, it takes Sevro returning from a near-fatal mission for her to realise that tomorrow isn't promised — and neither are second chances.

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 & 𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 | female reader | 3.5k words (ongoing)

part one

The Institute was built to break them. Amid the bloodshed, the bruises, and the relentless struggle to survive, friendship is a weakness — and love, an impossibility. Yet, Sevro au Barca finds both. When she's torn away from him, he'll stop at nothing to bring her home.

Slow Horses .ᐟ

a dysfunctional team of british MI5 agents by Mick Herron.

⟢ RIVER CARTWRIGHT

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐌 | female reader | 4k words

Y/N has been assigned on a solo undercover mission. Infiltrate the warehouse, secure the flash drive, and evade detection; seems simple enough. But what happens if she gets caught by a dangerous criminal & her life hangs in the balance?

𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐔𝐏𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐓 | female reader | 9.8k words (ongoing)

part one | part two

They despised one another & barely tolerated each other while working at Slough House. Tensions rise as they are sent out into the field together, working undercover to search for a sleeper agent in the cozy village of Upshott. To avoid being caught, they are forced to pretend that they are "together". Being so close in each others company causes certain feelings rise to the surface that they have both tried to bury for far too long.

𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 | female reader | 5.8k words

Y/N is leaving work from Slough House rather late one evening and passes River's office to find him still sitting at his desk. She persuades him to not be so uptight & to come have a drink with her at the pub. She learns a bit more about him that night — including the fact that River Cartwright is a massive lightweight.

Peaky Blinders .ᐟ

the ruthless Shelby family in post world war one in birmingham by Stephen Russell.

⟢ FINN SHELBY

𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄? | female reader | 5.4k words

part one | part two

✘ ✘ ✘ ✘

The first thing Y/N noticed was the deafening silence.

It was the sort that clings to the back of your throat, settles beneath your skin, crawls into the spaces between your thoughts.

Before today, silence meant safety.

Now it means you were waiting for someone to scream.

The survivors the Passage walk through the trees like ghosts.

There had been dozens of you when the doors opened.

Dozens of young golds, each one dressed in polished armour, each one carrying the confidence of one who walked through life without ever being told no. Sons and daughters of powerful families.

Heirs.

Warriors.

Future rulers of the Society.

Y/N distinctly remembered the way she looked at them, and the way everyone looked at each other.

All sizing up threats, searching for weakness and wondering who would be standing when it was all over.

She also recalled thinking that surely there had been some kind of mistake.

Surely this was just another test, her consciousness spoke.

A cruel, frightening one.

The Institute was meant to forge leaders.

It wasn't meant to make teenagers murder each other before they had even seen the battlefield.

Y/N was wrong.

The Society had never once hid what it valued.

Strength.

Power.

Survival.

She had simply been foolish enough to believe there were still limits to such madness.

Her home life was... complicated, to say the least.

Both of her parents were high achievers, people who accepted nothing less than excellence and success from their daughter. It'll be an adventure, they'd promised on her seventeenth name day, smiling as though they were sending her off to something glorious instead of a place designed to break children.

She almost laughed.

What would they think if they could see her now?

Seventeen years old. Dressed in little more than ragged burlap. Her hair stiff with the blood of the boy she'd been forced to kill, dried crimson staining her skin like ink that refused to wash away.

Would they recognise her now?

Would they recognise the boy she'd left behind in that dark room of the Passage, his body crumpled in a widening pool of blood? The same boy who, only minutes earlier, had been just as terrified as she was. Another child thrust into a game neither of them had chosen to play.

Would they still be proud of her now?

Or would they see exactly what the Institute intended to make of her?

That was assuming she survived long enough to see another sunrise.

Half of the people who arrived with her were now gone, the staggering lack of numbers were impossible to ignore.

Y/N noticed immediately.

The empty spaces.

The missing voices.

The people who should still be here.

Her mind took her back to the girl who stood near her before the doors opened, the boy who joked about how easy the test would be, the arrogant Gold who claimed he would win the entire Institute over before the first hour had passed.

They were all gone now.

As if they never even ceased to exist.

And the worst part of it all?

Somewhere deep inside her, beneath the horror and the guilt and the sick feeling that twisted in the pit of her stomach...

She was relieved it wasn't her.

The thought disgusts her.

She hates herself for it.

But survival is an ugly thing, and she couldn't afford the luxury of having any regrets.

✘ ✘ ✘ ✘

It had been months since the Passage. Months since Y/N had stepped into the Institute as just another name among hundreds, only to emerge as something far more dangerous. Somewhere along the way, she had found herself among House Diana, surrounded by those who valued patience, precision and survival above all else.

Students pass through the stone corridors of the castle, voices echoing against ancient walls. Weapons are sharpened. Plans are made. Names are exchanged. Everyone is trying to decide where they fit in the hierarchy before someone else decides for them.

That is what the Institute does.

It takes children who have spent their lives being told they are destined for greatness and forces them to prove they deserve it.

The Passage was only the beginning, she knew that now.

The memory of it followed her around like a shadow she would never be able to outrun.

The ring felt heavier than it should have.

It was the only thing Y/N could seem to focus on in this very moment as she found herself scouting the perimeter of the castle of House Diana.

Not the stone beneath her boots.

Not the ache in her muscles from days of exhaustion and the throbbing in her temples due to the lack of sleep.

Not even the bruises blooming across her skin in various shades of purple and black.

Her thumb brushes over the engraved mark of House Diana, tracing the lines over again and again until her skin begins to ache.

Endless forest stretches out before her, both dark and eerie beneath the moonlit sky.

The cold night air bites at her skin as she exhales heavily, watching the warmth of her breath curl into mist beneath the pale glow of the moon. For a moment, the world is still — quiet enough to forget the violence that waits for them beyond the confines of the castle.

The rest of the patrol moves ahead of her, four Diana students cutting quietly through the forest with a trained precision.

They appear experienced enough to understand the importance of silence, their footsteps careful against the earth, but still young enough to carry the confidence of people who believe they are untouchable. The Institute has not taken that from them yet. They still believe survival means they have won something.

Their voices drift back occasionally, low and hushed beneath the vast canopy of trees.

Plans for tomorrow.

Rumours about the other Houses.

Speculation about who will rise and who will fall.

Y/N listens without really listening. The words reach her, but they do not settle. Her eyes remain fixed on the trees surrounding her, scanning the darkness between the trunks, searching for any sign of movement, searching for threats, even though her mind seems to be somewhere else entirely.

Her thumb finds the ring again.

She doesn't even realise that she's doing it until the metal shifts beneath her touch.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

It has become a habit without her even noticing at times. Something to ground herself. Something to remind herself that she is still here, that she is still standing, that despite everything that has happened, she survived.

Though sometimes Y/N wondered if surviving was the same thing as winning.

Because winning is supposed to feel like something.

It is supposed to feel like triumph.

Instead, all she felt was the crushing weight of it all.

The weight of the ring.

The weight of the memories that had led her here.

The weight of knowing exactly what she had to do to earn the right to wear it.

"You're falling behind."

The voice pulls her back to the present.

She glances up, almost startled, and sheepishly took notice of the distance that had formed between her and the rest of the patrol. One of the Diana students is looking back over his shoulder, his expression more curious than annoyed.

Y/N hadn't even noticed that her pace was faltering.

"Sorry," she muttered, quieter than she intended, the word leaving her mouth automatically.

He studies her for a moment, as if trying to decide whether there is more to it than that, but eventually he shrugs nonchalantly. "Hmph, just don't get lost."

She simply nodded in return.

The patrol continues without delay, yet she finds herself slowing again.

Only slightly.

Enough that the others move further ahead.

Enough that the sound of their footsteps begins to fade into the distance.

Y/N doesn't mean to separate from them. She isn't trying to be reckless. She knows better than that. The forest surrounding House Diana is not safe, and the Institute has already proven that anything left unattended becomes an opportunity for someone else.

She simply just needed a moment.

The trees seem different here.

Quieter.

Even the air seemed colder.

The sounds of the others disappear until all that remains is the rustling of leaves and the distant movement of the forest around her.

She lowers her bow slightly, allowing her grip to loosen around the handle.

For a brief moment, she forgets where she is.

She forgets the castle behind her.

She forgets the Houses.

She forgets the war waiting for everyone.

And then—

The distinct sound of a twig snapping reverberates sharply through the air.

Her body reacted before her mind could.

Spinning on her heel, the bow rose instantly, the movement so instinctive that she barely registered making it.

An arrow was pulled from the quiver on her back in one smooth motion, her fingers settling against the string as she drew it back. Her breath stilled, her entire body becoming focused on the single point in front of her as she searched frantically for the source of the sound.

There was almost no thought involved.

No hesitation.

Only instinct. Training. Survival.

The forest around her seemed to fall back into silence, it's usual sounds of the night disappearing beneath the sudden awareness that something had changed. She stood completely still, staring into the darkness between the trees, every muscle in her body prepared for whatever was about to step out from the shadows.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Only the unsettling quiet and the weight of the bow in her hands.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, there was movement.

Her gaze narrowed against the wind as two figures emerged from the darkness.

Not from House Diana.

Her stomach tightened almost instantly. Instinct took over before thought could catch up, and she pivoted silently on her heel, turning just enough to keep them within her line of sight. Her hand moved with practiced precision, keeping the bow lifted with the arrow drawn back, the weapon becoming an extension of herself. Every muscle in her body coiled, ready for the slightest sign of further movement.

Though, she knew who they were without having to see either of their faces.

House Mars.

Everyone knew Mars, despite their armour being a dead giveaway.

The House that treated war like a religion. The House built on violence, aggression and dominance. The House that most expected to tear through the Institute with brute force alone.

Her arrow remained steady as the two figures stepped further into her view, their silhouettes becoming clearer beneath the faint light filtering through the trees with every passing second.

There were two of them.

The first was impossible to miss.

Not because of his size. Not because of his armour. It was something else entirely — something in the way he moved, in the way he carried himself, like he had no concern for whether the forest itself knew he was there.

There was no hesitation in him.

No careful calculation.

No attempt to disappear.

Instead, there was a strange kind of reckless confidence, almost as if danger was something he welcomed rather than avoided.

Ruthless, she thought, that was the only word that came to mind.

However, it was the second figure beside him that caught her attention.

More quieter, more controlled.

He moved with the kind of precision that immediately drew her in. He was the type of person who made her uneasy because she could tell he was always thinking, always watching, always several steps ahead of everyone around him.

Her grip tightened slightly around the bowstring, her knuckle tightening against the arrow.

The pair of them were completely unaware of the fact that she had seen them.

Gory hell, they didn't even know they were being watched.

They didn't know that, with a single word, she could change everything.

One shout.

That's all it would take.

And all of House Diana would know exactly where they were.

She would gain information. She would gain an advantage. She would be doing exactly what the Institute expected of her.

Find weakness, exploit it and win.

It is easier that way. Easier to survive when the person standing across from you becomes nothing more than a target.

That was the game, after all .

That was what everyone here was supposed to want, right?

Survival. Victory. Power.

But instead of calling out, she found her gaze dropping to the ring wrapped around her finger, settling like a heavy reminder.

The symbol of House Diana.

The one thing she was supposed to be proud of.

The one thing that proved she had survived.

Her eyes traced over the engraved metal almost unconsciously before her eyes returned to the two figures still hidden among the trees.

It was then that something strange settled in her chest.

Something she couldn't quite explain.

Because for a brief moment, she realised that the two people standing before her did not look like conquerors.

They did not look like winners.

Perhaps, they felt just as trapped as she did.

Her brows furrowed as her eyes drifted back towards the shorter of the two figures, the stranger who seems almost out of place among the polished arrogance of the other Golds she's encountered. Even from here, hidden beneath the cover of the trees, you can tell he is different.

He does not seem to carry himself like someone who has spent his entire life being told he is destined for greatness. There is no effortless confidence, no carefully crafted image of superiority.

There is something almost feral about him.

Like he belongs more to the forest than the castle.

She can see that his eyes move constantly, searching. The trees. The shadows. The spaces between things.

Her.

Especially her.

That is when Y/N realises it. Her breath hitches in the back of her throat as a dreadful weight begins to settle over her chest.

He knows.

He knows now that she has spotted them and is watching.

She should feel victorious. She should feel the satisfaction of having discovered something useful, of having caught an enemy where they were not expecting to be found. Instead, all Y/N felt was exhaustion.

Because she could recognise the look in his eyes as his eyes remain trained onto her.

Suspicion.

And the harsh expectation of betrayal.

You know that look because you have worn it yourself since the Passage. Since the moment the Institute revealed what it truly was. Since the moment you learned that the person standing beside you could become the person who ended your life.

Slowly, Y/N lowers her bow.

Not completely. Not enough to make herself vulnerable. But enough.

The scruffy looking Mars boy seemed to take notice of her immediately. His hand instinctively shifted toward his weapon, his body reacting before his mind had fully caught up. But then his head tilted slightly, his expression changing as recognition — or perhaps surprise — crossed his features. She could have sworn she heard him mutter a curse beneath his breath.

His gaze never left her as he reached over and tapped his companion on the arm, drawing his attention. The other boy followed his line of sight, his eyes tracking back toward her through the trees, and for a moment the three of them simply stared at one another.

Good, she thinks.

At least he was smart.

The quieter figure beside him mirrored the movement, watching her carefully, studying every shift in her posture as if waiting for the first sign of betrayal.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.

For several seconds, the three of them simply stood there, caught in a strange moment of understanding in the middle of a war that had barely even begun. The forest surrounded them, the trees standing as silent witnesses to a standoff that could end in blood with the smallest mistake.

Y/N wondered if they expected her to attack.

Perhaps, they did.

Maybe they expected everyone here to be exactly the same.

Ruthless. Ambitious. Hungry.

Maybe they expected her to become another monster because that was what the Institute was designed to create. It took children and stripped away whatever humanity they entered with.

Then, from deeper within the trees, a voice called out.

"Y/N?"

The familiar voice of one of her patrol members cut through the darkness, cautious but alert.

"What was that?" another called, their voice carrying through the trees. "We heard something."

But Y/N looked away first — not because she was afraid, but because she knew she had already made her choice.

She exhaled softly, lowering the bow and unhooking it from the string before returning it to the quiver on her back. The weapon was no longer aimed, but she wasn’t careless enough to forget the danger still standing in the shadows. Her eyes flickered back toward the two hidden figures one last time, narrowing slightly as she tilted her head toward the direction of her patrol.

"Nothing," she called out, the word carrying through the trees.

She felt the Mars soldiers tense further, their attention sharpening as they waited for the rest of her response. Their eyes remained fixed on her, searching for any sign that she was setting a trap.

"Just an animal."

The lie came easily.

A small one.

But still a lie, nonetheless.

The forest remained silent. Y/N waited for the consequences — for the sound of Diana soldiers rushing through the trees, for the alarm that would reveal what she had done, for the moment where the choice she made would come back to punish her.

But nothing happened.

The two figures remained hidden against the tree line, watching.

Confused.

She lowered her bow completely, finally allowing the tension to leave her shoulders. Then, without another glance in their direction, she turned away and disappeared back into the darkness of the forest.

Y/N expected them to leave.

She expected them to take the opportunity she had given them and disappear back into the forest before she had the chance to change her mind. That was what any smart person would do. In the Institute, hesitation was a weakness, and weakness was something people learned to exploit quickly.

But as she made her way back towards her patrol route, she could feel it.

A set of eyes trained on her back.

That strange, scruffy Mars boy.

Still watching her.

Despite the unsettling feeling knawing in her chest, Y/N refused to look back.

Because looking back would mean admitting she was curious.

And curiosity was dangerous.

Curiosity is what got people killed.

She kept her gaze forward, forcing herself to focus on the path ahead instead. The sound of her own footsteps against the forest floor was the only thing keeping her grounded, but she could still feel the weight of his stare following her long after she had disappeared back into the trees.

✘ ✘ ✘ ✘

Sevro did not move.

At least, not immediately.

He let out a strange noise that was half laugh, half scoff and half something dangerously close to relief. He hated that last part. His shoulders dropped slightly as the tension bled from his body, but his expression remained guarded, as if relaxing even for a moment was something he couldn’t afford.

For once, he had no joke. No insult. No strange comment to throw into the silence to cover the fact that something had unsettled him.

That alone was unusual.

Darrow noticed almost immediately.

"She saw us," Darrow said after a beat, his voice low as his eyes remained fixed on the empty space between the trees. He didn’t sound afraid. If anything, he sounded confused.

They had been careless enough to be discovered, yet somehow, they were still standing there.

The words broke through the quiet, but Sevro barely reacted. His eyes remained fixed on the place where the Diana girl had vanished, as if expecting her to return and reveal that this had all been some elaborate trick.

"Yeah," his answer was quiet and drawled out, almost distracted.

Darrow watched him for a moment, his expression tightening slightly. "She knew exactly who we were."

Sevro’s jaw shifted as he continued staring into the darkness. "Yeah."

A pause settled between them.

Darrow turned slightly toward him, raising an eyebrow. "You have anything else to say besides yeah?"

For a moment, Sevro didn't answer.

Then, finally, he tore his gaze away from the trees and looked back at Darrow. His usual smirk was nowhere to be found as he simply shrugged.

"No."

And that was the problem.

Because he didn't.

And he hated that.

Usually, people made sense.

Not in the way normal people thought, because Sevro had never been particularly normal, but in patterns. Everyone had something they wanted. Everyone had something they were willing to do anything to get.

The Institute wasn't complicated.

It was simple.

You won.

You survived.

You took what you needed.

That was how everyone played the game.

That Diana girl should have wanted something.

Information. A strategic advantage. A chance to weaken Mars. A reward from her House. Anything.

She had the opportunity right there, and instead of using it, she had spared their lives and let them walk away.

Why? The question dug into his thoughts, refusing to disappear.

And Sevro hated questions.

Questions meant uncertainty.

Uncertainty meant weakness.

And weakness was something the Institute punished without mercy.

✘ ✘ ✘ ✘

The med bay had emptied hours ago. 

The last patient had been discharged, all supplies restocked, the reports filed — most of them, anyway. 

Y/N sat alone at one of the workstations, shoulders aching from being hunched over for so long. The overhead lights had dimmed into the ship's night cycle, casting everything in a soft blue glow. 

The smart thing would have been to go to bed. 

Instead, she found herself staring at the same line of text for the fifth time, the data pad casting a pale glow across the desk. As a Yellow aboard the ship and the resident doctor, she sifted through patient reports left behind.

She rubbed at her eyes as exhaustion started to seep through, forcing herself to focus. These weren’t new cases — just old files, half-updated notes and lingering treatment logs from the previous ship’s doctor — but she’d promised herself she would finish reviewing them before sleeping.

That had been two hours ago.

Y/N pulled the sleeves of her jacket over her hands and drew a knee up to her chest, resting her chin on it. Her socked foot tapped lightly against the floor as she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, then opened them again, as if she could chase away the warmth buzzing in her chest.

A knock sounded from the far corner of the room.

Her eyes lifted, glancing up in reaction.

There stood Sevro in the doorway, holding a tray in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. 

He wore dark cargo pants, scuffed black combat boots, and a hooded jacket that mirrored her own, making him look like a shadowy reflection of herself.

"You're alive," he drawled, tilting his head as his gaze swept over her.

Y/N shot him a playful, dry look. "That's usually how it works."

"Hmm,” he sauntered, stepping inside, carrying that same careless confidence he seemed to wear as naturally as his wolfskin. "Wasn't sure. You've been staring at that screen so long, I figured your brain might've started leaking out your ears."

Her lips twitched into a small smile despite herself.

Sevro grinned almost immediately, catching it. He crossed the room and set the tray down beside her on the desk with a small flourish, as though he'd personally prepared a feast instead of whatever scraps he'd managed to scavenge.

Food.

Real food.

Well. Real enough.

Y/N glanced down at the tray, then back up at him, raising an eyebrow, "What's this?"

He dropped into the chair beside hers before she could protest, deliberately angling himself away from the desk like he had no intention of doing anything productive, then stretched his legs out with a satisfied sigh. “I stole it.”

Her eyebrows furrowed instead now. "You stole food?"

"I liberated it," he pointed a finger at her in mock correction. "Big difference."

She couldn’t help but eye him suspiciously.

His grin was still there, but up close he looked exhausted. 

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and there was a fresh bruise blooming across his jaw that definitely hadn't been there that morning. His hair was a mess even by Sevro standards, sticking up in every direction possible.

She picked at the food, turning over a questionable-looking piece with the fork before deciding it was probably edible. Beside her, Sevro leaned farther back in his chair until it balanced precariously on two legs as his boots found their way onto a nearby cabinet.

He watched Y/N eat out of the corner of his eye like he was monitoring a tactical situation.

“Have you eaten?” she asked him between bites, reaching out for the bottle of water with one hand while the other absently pushed a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, Sevro lingered in that infuriating way of his — half-distracted, half-defiant.

“Maybe,” he finally muttered, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug that didn’t do much convincing.

Y/N stopped chewing mid-bite, slowly lowering her fork as her eyes narrowed at him.

“Sevro,” she said, his name coming out sharper now, threaded with warning.

He glanced at her then, feigning innocence for exactly half a second before it cracked. 

“What?” he shot back, voice edging toward defensive as he shifted in his seat.

Her grip tightened slightly on the bottle of water before she set it down with deliberate care.

“Have. You. Eaten.” she repeated, each word spaced out with controlled patience, her gaze locking onto him like she was about to diagnose something far more serious than stubbornness.

His eyes narrowed, defensive on instinct, like she’d just accused him of treason instead of malnutrition.

“Why do you Yellows always ask so many gory damn questions?” he muttered, voice rough with annoyance, though it lacked any real bite.

“Because idiots like you keep trying to survive on caffeine and spite,” she shot back without missing a beat.

“And it works just fine,” Sevro said automatically, leaning back in his chair with that familiar feral ease, chin tilting up like he was daring her to argue further.

She lifted the bottle of water to her lips and gave him a long, unimpressed look over the rim as she drank. “I’ll pull rank on you,” she said flatly once she lowered it.

That earned a pause.

His expression shifted just slightly — but he soon shrugged as if he’d already decided the outcome in his favour.

“I think it’s me who holds rank over you, actually,” he said, too quick, too smug, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She let out a slow breath through her nose. 

“Then consider this a threat,” she replied, setting her bottle down.

“A threat, huh?” Sevro echoed, leaning closer now, eyes glinting with that sharp, feral amusement he always wore when he thought he was about to win something.

She rolled her eyes, but the edge in her voice softened as she nudged her tray closer to him, sliding it across the table. “Eat something real,” she said, quieter now, like it wasn’t a request he actually had a choice about.

He narrowed his eyes at her until he reached forward, taking a piece of food into his mouth before shoving his hands back into the pockets of his hooded jacket. 

A few seconds passed.

“You always like this?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as he watched her, even though he already knew the answer. 

“Like what?” she replied, not looking up right away as she adjusted something on the tray.

“Bossy,” he said, leaning back in his chair again, boots shifting under his weight.

Y/N let out a quiet snort, finally meeting his gaze. “Only when I’m right.”

That earned him a low, amused huff of laughter. 

“That’s most of the time, then,” he shot back without hesitation.

She rolled her eyes at him, “I hate you.” 

She had said it rather flatly, nudging the tray a little closer again, insisting without words.

Sevro didn’t even blink. The corner of his mouth curled, smug and entirely too sure of himself.

“No, you don’t,” he replied, softer now, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Y/N didn’t argue. 

The words slipped out so casually that it was as if her heart had faltered.

Fortunately, Sevro seemed completely unaware of the effect he'd had.

Or maybe he wasn't.

Sometimes it was impossible to tell.

Outside the ship, the void kept doing what it always did — falling apart, rebuilding, starting wars it couldn’t finish. 

Sevro leaned further back into his chair, still chewing, still watching her like she was a problem he hadn’t decided how to solve yet.

"You know," he began after a while, staring at the ceiling, "Darrow thinks you're going to work yourself into an early grave."

Y/N groaned almost immediately, letting her head fall back. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because you're insane." He answered without missing a beat.

She looked at him with a sarcastic look plastered on her face, "Oh, coming from you?"

"Exactly," he jabbed a thumb toward his chest. "I'm a professional. Takes one to know one."

A laugh had escaped from her before she could stop it.

The sound seemed to catch both of them off guard.

Her smile lingered on her lips.

Across from her, Sevro blinked, then his grin started to soften around the edges. 

For a brief moment the usual sharpness left his expression, replaced by something warmer, quieter. He shook his head slightly, like he couldn't quite believe he'd managed to make you laugh.

"There she is," he murmured, almost to himself.

Then, noticing she'd heard him, he immediately ruined the moment by reaching over and stealing a piece of food off the tray again.

Y/N took a moment to glance toward the big digital clock on the wall.

2:03 a.m.

“You should be sleeping,” she remarked quietly, voice softer now, more tired than teasing.

Sevro snorted in response, dragging the heel of his hand lightly over the bruise along his jaw like he was testing how much it still hurt. “So should you,” he shot back, like it was obvious she was just as guilty as he was.

“Fair,” she admitted after a beat, exhaling through her nose.

“Fair,” he echoed immediately, the word bending into something wry as the corner of his mouth twitched into a faint, crooked smile — gone almost as soon as it appeared.

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she looked back up at him properly.

The smile didn’t last.

She watched as he shifted in place, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his oversized jacket, shoulders slightly hunched now as the casual edge slipped off him. His gaze dropped for a moment, and he caught his lower lip between his teeth — thoughtless, almost absent.

Gods.

That was dangerous.

Y/N looked away quickly, suddenly far too interested in the edge of the tray in front of her.

Somewhere along the way, Sevro had become one of her favourite people to be around.

She weren't entirely sure when that had happened.

Maybe during the endless months aboard ship.

Maybe during one of the countless nights spent patching him up after training accidents.

Whatever the reason, it was a problem.

A massive one.

Because every day it became harder for her to ignore the way her stomach flipped whenever he walked into a room.

Harder to ignore how closely she’d tracked his injuries.

How relieved she always felt when he came back from missions alive, well and in one piece.

“You thinking too hard again?”

Y/N blinked.

Sevro had his head turned toward her already, like he’d been watching for a while and only just decided to call her out on it. Elbows resting loosely against the back of the chair, posture lazy in that coiled, predatory way of his — like a blade pretending it wasn’t sharp.

“What?” she asked simply, brows furrowing and gaze narrowing.

His eyes narrowed right back, bright and assessing under the dim med bay light. “That face.”

“What face?”

“The one you make when you’re trapped inside your own head,” he said, like he was diagnosing a problem he’d seen too many times to ignore.

She immediately looked away. “I don’t make a face.”

A beat.

Sevro scoffed, low and amused. “You absolutely make a face.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

Y/N huffed another quiet laugh before she could stop it, lips twitching despite herself. “You’re annoying.”

“Professionally,” he agreed without hesitation, leaning back like the accusation was actually a compliment.

Then, like it was nothing at all, he added, “Darrow says it’s one of my best qualities.”

“Well, Darrow is wrong.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Oh, yeah? You ask him that yourself?” she pressed, finally looking back at him, eyebrow raised.

“Nah,” Sevro’s grin turned crooked, wolfish at the edges. “But if I did, he’d agree.”

That got her. A short laugh slipped out before she could catch it.

It was infuriating how easy he made that.

And that was when it changed.

Just slightly.

Her laugh seemed to catch him off guard again. Not enough for most people to notice — but Y/N did.

His grin didn’t disappear, not fully, but something in it shifted. Softer at the edges. Less shield, more… exposed.

The room felt quieter after that.

The med bay hum filled the space where words had been.

She had only now became properly aware of how close he was sitting to her.

Close enough that if either of them shifted, there wouldn’t be room to pretend it didn’t matter. Close enough to see the gold flecks scattered through his eyes — wild, restless things that didn’t belong in anything so human. Close enough to notice the scar cutting through one eyebrow, old and familiar.

And close enough that her hair — dark, dyed deliberately over what used to be Gold — fell forward near her cheek, hiding the faint reminder of what she were born as. 

What she’d chosen to cover.

Sevro didn’t look away.

Neither did Y/N.

The jokes had burned off without either of them noticing.

His gaze flicked — slow, almost heavy — from her eyes to her mouth.

Heat rushed up Y/N’s neck before she could stop it.

The space between the two of them tightened, taut as a drawn wire.

One move.

That was all it would take.

She could feel her breath catch in the back of her throat. 

So did his.

And then—

Sevro shifted slightly.

Not away, but toward her.

His hand lifted, slower than anything about him ever was. Rough fingers — scarred, calloused, built for knives and violence — hesitated for half a second like they didn’t trust themselves with anything gentle.

Then he reached for her.

A strand of Y/N’s dark-dyed hair had fallen loose near her cheek. Black against skin that still carried faint echoes of Gold beneath it, no matter how much she had tried to bury it.

His fingers brushed it back into place.

Barely there.

Careful in a way Sevro au Barca never was.

He tucked it behind her ear, knuckles grazing her temple for just a second too long to be accidental — and just short enough to pretend it was.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

His hand lingered like he’d forgotten to pull it away.

Then his throat bobbed.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

The word cracked the spell.

Y/N looked down too quickly, suddenly very interested in absolutely anything that wasn’t him.

Sevro stood up so fast his chair scraped harshly against the floor.

“I should go,” he said, voice rougher now. Controlled again. Forced back into shape.

“Right,” she answered, though neither of them moved properly yet.

He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, rubbing like he could scrub the moment off his skin. Then he let out a short, awkward laugh — wrong on him. Unstable at the edges.

Sevro didn’t do awkward.

He did war.

He did chaos.

Not this.

“Get some sleep,” he muttered.

She simply hummed in response, “You too.”

“Yeah,” he huffed. “Good one.”

Her eyes rolled, but her mouth betrayed her with a small smile anyway.

His returned it — smaller now. Realer.

When he reached for the empty tray, his fingers brushed hers.

Then it was gone.

His eyes met hers, almost purposefully, one last time.

Something unspoken passed between them — dangerous in its softness.

Then he finally stepped back.

“Goodnight, Sevro,” Y/N said quietly.

He lingered in the doorway just long enough to make it feel deliberate.

“Night, sweetheart,” he said, low and rough, like the word didn’t quite fit in his mouth.

And then he was gone.

Leaving the med bay too quiet.

Too empty.

And Y/N sitting there with the ghost of his touch still on her skin — and the very inconvenient realisation that Sevro au Barca had just looked at her like she was something worth being careful with.

✘ ✘ ✘ ✘

The morning air inside the ship tasted recycled and metallic, threaded with antiseptic from the med bay lockers stacked near the hanger bay.

She stood beside one of the secured medical crates, checking inventory against a data pad while technicians moved through final launch procedures around her. Greys shouted over one another. Harness locks clicked into place. Somewhere deeper in the ship, engines began their low, vibrating hum.

Another doctor hovered nearby, fussing over supplies with increasing irritation.

“You packed enough coagulants for a battlefield?” he asked her for the third time.

“Yes.”

“And the trauma kits?”

“Yes.”

“Portable scanner?”

She looked up flatly. “Yes.”

He sighed dramatically. “I’m trying to keep people alive.”

“You assigned me to a ship full of Howlers. Bit late for that.”

A few nearby crewmen snorted.

The doctor muttered something under his breath about reckless idiots and stalked off toward another crate.

And through all of it, Y/N only saw him.

Sevro came down the narrow corridor from the cockpit with Darrow beside him, wolf cloak thrown over one shoulder like it weighed nothing at all. His pulse armour was black this morning, scorched at one pauldron from some older fight he clearly hadn’t bothered repairing properly. 

Knives lined his body in ugly, familiar places. One was strapped sideways against his chest. Another at his thigh. Gods knew how many more were hidden.

His hair looked worse than usual. Like he’d cut it himself with a combat blade in the dark.

Darrow was saying something serious beside him, low and measured in that usual Reaper way of his.

“…we hit the dockyards first,” Darrow said under his breath. “If the jammers fail, we abort immediately. No improvising.”

Sevro scoffed at him, “Improvising’s my best quality.”

Darrow glanced toward her then, catching the way Sevro’s attention had already drifted completely away from the conversation.

Always too fast.

His mouth twitched immediately into that crooked little grin that wasn’t quite a smile.

“There she is,” he muttered, though loud enough for everyone standing in the launch bay to hear. 

Darrow followed his gaze, expression unreadable for exactly one second before he shook his head faintly and continued toward the cockpit.

“Try not to antagonize the medic before launch,” he said as he passed.

“No promises.”

Sevro peeled away without hesitation.

The closer he got, the more she noticed the bruising along his jaw. A split knuckle. Fresh blood beneath one nail. He smelled faintly of smoke and gun oil and cold recycled air.

“Thought you’d still be asleep, Doc,” he said, voice rough from lack of sleep. “Normal people rest before suicidal missions.”

“I work with Howlers,” she replied quietly. “I stopped being normal months ago.”

A sharp bark of laughter left him.

“Fair point.”

But then the grin faded a little.

Just enough.

The noise of the ship seemed to dull around them. Not gone — just distant now. Secondary.

His eyes dragged over her face like he was checking for something. Making sure she was real. Still there.

The memory of yesterday still sat heavy between them.

The too-close moment in the med bay. The way his hand had rested briefly against her temple, running over her cheek and tucking that strand of hair behind her ear, leaning in before he pulled away completely.

Like he hadn’t meant to do it.

Almost like it had scared him.

Sevro scratched at the back of his neck now, suddenly restless in her company.

“Mission’ll probably be quick,” he muttered in the space between them. “Couple idiots to kill. Couple explosions. Maybe a dramatic escape if the Reaper’s feeling theatrical.”

“That doesn’t sound reassuring at all.”

“It’s not supposed to be reassuring.” His mouth curled faintly. “It’s supposed to be honest.”

She hated how easily fear settled into her chest whenever he geared up like this.

Because Sevro always looked most like himself before violence.

Alive, in a terrible way.

Like some feral thing finally being let off its chain.

“You could at least pretend to care about surviving,” she said softly.

The words landed somewhere between a plea and a reprimand. She stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, watching him like she expected him to bolt the second she blinked. The concern in her voice was quiet, but it carried enough weight to make lesser men pause.

He snorted.

The sound was sharp and dismissive. Sevro dragged a hand through his unruly hair, smearing dirt across his temple in the process. He shifted his weight against the wall, mouth twitching with the ghost of a grin that never quite reached his eyes. 

As usual, seriousness seemed to itch beneath his skin. “Doc, surviving’s literally my best skill.”

He spread his hands as if presenting an undeniable fact, then tapped two fingers against his chest. The grin widened into something crooked and feral. “Look at me. Still here.”

The joke came easy, automatic. A shield thrown up before anyone could get too close to whatever sat underneath. But beneath the sarcasm, there was the familiar restless energy — the constant readiness of a man who'd spent most of his life expecting the next knife, the next ambush, the next impossible fight.

“Sevro,” she sighed heavily, his name leaving her lips like a warning. 

At that, he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and let his head thunk lightly against the wall behind him. One corner of his mouth twitched upward.

For a moment he didn't answer. He just stared off somewhere over her shoulder, jaw working slightly as if chewing on words he'd rather swallow.

Then he glanced back at her, expression caught between amusement and annoyance, already preparing another joke to dodge whatever came next.

Yet, something in her voice made him pause.

Actually pause.

Her throat tightened immediately when she saw the shift in his expression. The humour dimmed. The sharpness softened around the edges, just for her.

“Be safe,” she pleaded, the words were barely above a whisper, almost lost beneath the noise around them.

Simple words.

But they somehow felt enormous.

Sevro looked at her for a long second.

Then another.

Gods, he was awful at this part. At feelings. At tenderness. She could practically see him fighting his own instincts not to deflect with some crude joke.

Instead, to her surprise, he stepped closer.

Close enough she could see that same tiny scar cutting through his eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he relented after a moment. “I’ll try.”

Not cocky this time.

Not teasing.

Real.

Her fingers curled instinctively against the sleeves of her jacket to stop herself from reaching for him first.

Because if she touched him now, she knew she might not let go.

Sevro noticed anyway. Of course he did.

His gaze flicked downward briefly before returning to hers.

Then, as quickly as breathing, he leaned in and bumped his forehead lightly against hers.

A Howler sort of affection. Strange and fleeting and far too intimate.

“You worry too much,” he drawled, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

The grin that followed was familiar — crooked, irritating, and entirely too pleased with itself for someone who regularly treated self-preservation like a suggestion rather than a rule. 

He nudged her shoulder lightly with his own, trying to steer the conversation away from anything serious.

“You almost die too much.”

She didn't miss a beat.

Her stare was flat enough to stop most people in their tracks. Unfortunately, Sevro had spent years charging headfirst into situations that should have killed him, so a look of disapproval barely registered.

A short bark of laughter escaped him, “That’s also fair.”

He lifted both hands in surrender, as if conceding a point in an argument he'd never intended to win in the first place. 

“See?” his grin widened, equal parts sheepish and unapologetic, “Glad we can agree on something.” 

For all the humour in his voice, there was a flicker of acknowledgment beneath it. A rare admission that she wasn't wrong.

Even if he'd rather throw himself into another fight than say so outright.

The animated voice of a Blue interrupted them, crackling over the ship comms.

“Launch in thirty seconds.”

Sevro exhaled through his nose and leaned back slightly.

Then he looked at her one last time.

And for one dangerous second, she thought he might kiss her.

Instead, he took a step backward, boots scraping against the floor. The movement put space between them, but judging by the way his jaw tightened, he seemed to regret it instantly.

“When I get back,” he said, pointing at her lazily, “you’re sleeping. You look like gory damn shit.”

The accusation came with a careless flick of his wrist. He squinted at her as though conducting a thorough medical examination, then nodded once to himself, apparently satisfied with his own diagnosis.

Y/N crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head, fighting a smile. The look she gave him was equal parts disbelief and challenge, “You’re giving me orders now?”

Sevro tapped two fingers against his chest and puffed himself up dramatically, “I’m basically a medical professional myself.”

 The smug grin spreading across his face suggested he expected recognition for years of distinguished service in a field he had absolutely no qualifications for.

“You drank disinfectant once,” she managed to smirk, the reminder left her lips so quickly it was obvious she'd been waiting for the opportunity to use it against him.

“It said not to. That sounds medicinal.”

He spread his hands wide in a gesture that somehow managed to be both defensive and triumphant. One shoulder lifted in a shrug, as though the conclusion was completely reasonable and everyone else was simply failing to appreciate his genius.

She laughed before she could stop herself.

Her hand flew to her mouth a second too late. The sound escaped anyway, warm and genuine, cutting through the tension that had lingered between them all day.

The laugh seemed to hit him harder than expected.

His grin stalled.

Not enough for most people to notice.

Just enough.

His eyes flickered toward her, then away again. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, suddenly finding the floor far more interesting than he had a moment ago.

His expression softened again — brief, startled, almost warm.

For a heartbeat, he looked younger. Less like the infamous Goblin and more like the exhausted man underneath all the scars, sarcasm, and reckless confidence.

Then he caught himself.

His mouth twisted into that familiar crooked smirk. He pushed himself off the wall and hooked his thumbs into his belt, dragging the walls back into place before anyone could notice they'd slipped.

The moment was gone.

The Goblin had returned.

“Don’t patch anybody up while I’m gone,” he called while backing toward the cockpit ladder. “Cheating on me with other patients would destroy me emotionally.”

“You are impossible.”

“And yet you like me anyway.”

Before she could answer, warning sirens pulsed softly through the ship as the engines roared louder beneath their feet.

Sevro grabbed the overhead rail and shot her one last crooked grin as he disappeared toward the cockpit.

He never looked back.

But just before the blast doors sealed between compartments, a hand appeared briefly through the narrowing gap.

Two fingers raised in a crooked salute.

For her.

✘ ✘ ✘ ✘

She did not sleep well.

Not that she expected to.

The ship had settled into the strange artificial quiet that only came after deployment — low engine vibrations beneath the floor, distant comm chatter bleeding through the walls, the occasional thud of movement from crew rotating shifts.

But underneath all of it sat the waiting.

The ugly kind.

The kind every medic learned to live with.

She lay half-awake in her bunk for what felt like hours, staring at the dim ceiling while thoughts circled endlessly through her head.

Be safe.

Such stupidly small words.

As if words had ever stopped death before.

At some point, exhaustion had finally managed to drag her under.

Then—

“WAKE UP!”

Hands grabbed her shoulder and shook her hard enough that the world jolted violently back into focus.

Urgent in a way that cut straight through sleep like a blade.

Her eyes snapped open instantly, instinct taking over before thought could even catch up. 

For a brief, disorienting moment she didn’t know where she was, only that something was wrong — deeply wrong — because nothing about the way she was being woken suggested safety.

The narrow bunk. 

The low hum of the ship’s engines. 

The dim corridor light bleeding in through the half-open door. 

It all came rushing back in pieces, snapping into place like broken glass reassembling itself.

Then she saw Virginia.

She was standing over her in full uniform, golden hair pulled back into a tight, disciplined knot, every part of her appearance perfectly arranged in a way that only made the expression on her face more alarming. Her jacket was fastened cleanly, gloves already on, as if she had come straight from command without stopping for anything.

But it wasn’t the uniform that made dread slam into her chest — it was her face.

Virginia au Augustus did not look like this. 

Not ever.

She was someone who held herself steady through crises, who spoke with composure even when everything around her was collapsing. If anything, she was known for being infuriatingly calm when others were losing control.

Now her face was pale beneath the harsh overhead lights, her jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped near her cheek, and her eyes carried a weight that didn’t belong there. 

Something carefully contained was pressing against the edges of her control, threatening to spill through.

And that alone was enough to make a cold dread settle in her stomach.

“Mustang?” she asked, her voice still rough with sleep as she pushed herself up slightly.

Mustang didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she glanced toward the corridor behind her, as if checking who might overhear, then stepped fully into the room and closed the distance just enough to make her next words quieter, more controlled.

“The ship just docked,” she said quickly. Her tone was steady, but it was the kind of steadiness that required effort, like holding something fragile together with bare hands. “The mission went wrong.”

Her stomach dropped so sharply it felt like the floor had fallen away beneath the bunk.

“How bad?” she asked, already knowing she didn’t want the answer.

Virginia hesitated.

Just for a second, but it was long enough that it pressed like a weight between them, thickening the air in the small room.

Her gaze flicked away again, only briefly, before returning with something harder in it—something forced into place.

“Bad.”

Y/N was already moving before the word fully landed.

Cold metal flooring hit her bare feet as she shoved herself upright, pulse roaring in her ears. Somewhere beyond the cabin walls alarms were sounding in short, controlled bursts — medical emergency alerts.

Not evacuation.

Wounded.

Gods.

Her hands shook as she blindly reached for her clothes.

“Casualties?” she demanded, already bracing herself for the answer.

“Multiple,” Virginia replied without hesitation.

The word landed like a physical blow anyway.

Y/N’s breath caught sharply in the back of her throat. “Howlers?”

Mustang didn’t answer at first.

She didn’t need to.

The silence did it for her.

The room suddenly felt too small to hold either of them, like the walls had shifted closer without anyone noticing. Heat pressed in from nowhere, suffocating and sharp, and she pushed herself upright too quickly, fumbling as she reached for her combat pants.

Her hands didn’t cooperate the way they should have. Fabric twisted awkwardly between her fingers, and she nearly cursed under her breath before Virginia moved.

Mustang crossed the room in two brisk strides and picked up her boots from beside the bunk, holding them out without ceremony.

“Here.”

“I’ve got them,” she snapped automatically, though she was still struggling with her footing.

Virginia’s gaze flicked over her once, sharp and assessing. “You’re shaking.”

That nearly broke through the edge she was clinging to.

For a moment she didn’t respond. Then she exhaled sharply through her nose and gave up the argument, sitting hard on the edge of the bunk as Virginia crouched in front of her.

The boots went on efficiently — no wasted movement, no hesitation. Just practiced urgency, laces pulled tight and secured with hands that didn’t tremble.

“You need steady hands,” Mustang said firmly, not looking up as she worked on the laces. “Breathe later.”

The words struck something solid inside her. Not comfort exactly — something sharper than that. Structure. Order. A command she could follow when everything else threatened to splinter.

Doctor first. 

Compartmentalise. 

Break down later.

She swallowed once, hard, and stood the moment the boots were secured, shrugging into her jacket as she moved for the door without waiting another second.

Virginia matched her pace immediately as they stepped into the corridor, the ship’s lighting washing over them in cold, rhythmic pulses.

“What happened?” she asked, forcing her voice to stay level as they walked.

“Ambush,” Virginia said, eyes forward. “Dockyard trap. They got the civilians out, but the Sons lost the extraction route.”

Her jaw tightened. “How long ago?”

“Twenty-three minutes.”

The number hit harder than anything else had so far.

Twenty-three minutes wasn’t just delay — it was momentum, collapse, aftermath already unfolding without them there to stop it.

Her pace quickened instinctively.

Too long.

Gods.

Too long.

She yanked her hair back while half-running through the ship corridors, fingers moving automatically as she twisted it into a knot at the base of her neck. Crewmen flattened themselves against the walls as she stormed past. Somewhere ahead she could already hear shouting spilling from the med bay.

The doors slid open.

Chaos hit her full force.

Blood.

So much blood.

The sharp antiseptic sting of sterilizers mixed horribly with copper and smoke and burned flesh.

Howlers filled nearly every available surface.

One Grey medic was trying desperately to stop arterial bleeding from a mangled leg. 

Another patient screamed somewhere behind the surgical divider. Medical trays clattered to the floor. Somebody shouted for plasma. Somebody else shouted for morphine.

And through it all, bodies kept coming.

The entire room snapped toward her the second she entered.

“Doctor!”

“Over here!”

“We’re losing this one—”

She moved instantly, eyes darting around the room as she began barking out orders.

“Seal that wound before transport!”

“You—get pressure there now!”

“No, not that injector, are you stupid? The blue one!”

Her voice cut through the panic sharply enough to stabilize it.

Not calm.

Never calm.

Controlled.

That was enough.

Years of training took over completely now, pushing everything else aside. Fear became compartmentalized. Buried under procedure.

She crossed to the nearest patient first — a young Red, barely more than a boy, with jagged shrapnel embedded deep through his abdomen. The smell of antiseptic and blood mingled in the air, sharp enough to make her stomach twist.

“Vitals?” she asked, crouching beside him.

“Dropping,” a voice answered, tight and clipped.

“Get him into Surgery Two. Immediately.”

A hand gripped her arm, tugging her back slightly.

“We’re out of clot foam.”

Her eyes flicked toward the supply cabinets on the wall. “Cabinet Seven.”

“That was emptied,” the medic said, voice tight with panic.

Then she snapped, precise and cold: “Then strip emergency reserves from trauma storage. Now.”

The medic sprinted away, leaving her to the boy on the table.

Another person shoved a scanner into her hands, and she barely caught it, eyes darting to the readings.

“Collapsed lung,” she muttered, already moving. “Tube him.”

“We need another surgeon,” someone said, voice shaking, barely holding authority in the chaos.

“You have me,” she snapped without looking up, hands already working.

The controlled calm of command pressed against the chaos, a brittle order holding the room together. And then—

The med bay doors burst open.

The sudden intrusion split the room’s rhythm, and silence rippled strangely through the space.

Not complete silence.

Something heavier. A shadow of anticipation, of dread.

Every pair of eyes in the med bay turned instinctively toward the sound.

Darrow stood in the doorway.

Armor blackened.

Blood soaked nearly half his body.

And slung over his shoulder—

No.

No.

Her breathing stopped.

Sevro hung limp in Darrow’s grasp, head lolled unnaturally against the pulse armour. Blood dripped steadily from his fingers onto the floor below, leaving a trail behind as Darrow dragged him.

Too much blood.

Way too much.

For one terrible second she genuinely could not move.

Could not think.

Because it did not look real.

The Sevro everyone knew was loud.

Violent.

Sharp edges and filthy jokes and movement.

Not—

This.

Not limp.

Not silent.

Darrow crossed the room in three brutal strides, grunting with every step as he dragged Sevro across the room like a dead weight.

“Move.”

Everything exploded back into motion.

She shoved an entire tray of instruments violently off the nearest surgical bench. Metal crashed across the floor in a deafening scatter as Darrow laid Sevro down hard atop the surface.

The sight of him nearly shattered her composure instantly.

His armour was torn open across the chest.

One side of his abdomen had been ripped apart so badly she could see exposed muscle beneath the blood. A mixture of burns and deep cuts climbed one arm. A gunshot wound sat just below his ribs.

And there was so much blood.

Far too much.

His skin looked grey beneath the smears of red.

“No pulse ox.”

“He lost too much blood,” Darrow said roughly, trying to catch his breath as he helplessly stared down at his best friend.

She grabbed Sevro’s jaw carefully, turning his face toward the light.

Nothing.

No response.

A horrible sound built in her throat before she crushed it down violently.

No.

Not now.

A medic approached Y/N’s side, pale-faced after one glance at Sevro’s injuries.

“We need someone more senior,” he said quietly.

The words landed heavy in the cramped med-bay, swallowed almost instantly by the hum of failing systems and the distant shudder of the station’s damaged spine. A monitor flickered behind them, stuttering through half a heartbeat of light before dying again.

She shook her head, tugging back a hand to have it stained a dark crimson red with Sevro’s blood, “There’s no time.”

“We can stabilize until—”

“There is no one else,” she said sternly, fingers hovering for half a second above the exposed wound before pressing down again, as if committing herself to it physically as much as verbally.

She pressed her palm harder against his open wounds, jaw tight, eyes flicking to Darrow like she might silently ask for confirmation.

“He’ll die before then.”

The words came out cold enough to freeze the room. 

Even the tech at the far console stopped typing for half a second. Someone swallowed audibly, then pretended they hadn’t.

She looked at Darrow then.

Actually looked at him.

Before now, he had been just another shape in motion — blood, armour plating, dusted ash still clinging to the seams of his skin. But now her focus narrowed, cutting through all of it until there was nothing left but the man.

And for the first time since she’d known the Reaper, she saw fear.

Real fear.

Not for himself.

But for Sevro.

Darrow’s jaw flexed once, hard enough to click. His eyes didn’t dart away, but they weren’t steady either — not the way they usually were when ordering death like it was logistics.

“He crashed the jammer manually,” Darrow said quietly. His voice had gone rough, scraped raw by whatever he’d seen down there. “Stayed behind to hold the dock.”

A beat.

Of course he did.

Of course the suicidal goblin stayed behind.

Her hands were already moving over the wounds, assessing damage automatically.  

Internal bleeding.

Possible organ rupture.

Massive blood loss.

If she hesitated — he wouldn’t make it out alive. He would die. 

The realization hit with brutal clarity.

One of the doctors beside her spoke carefully.

The room fell silent again, the kind of silence that didn’t settle so much as collapse inward — cut off mid-breath, mid-thought, mid-denial. A monitor beeped once, then twice, too loud in the absence of speech.

Because everyone understood exactly what that meant.

No one looked at anyone else. No one wanted to be the one who did.

And if she failed — Sevro would die on this table.

Her throat tightened as she swallowed, hard, like the thought itself had weight. Her hands didn’t stop moving, but the precision sharpened, as if speed could outrun consequence.

Her stomach twisted so violently she thought she might be sick. She exhaled through her nose instead, shallow, controlled, forcing it back down where it belonged.

But then her eyes caught on his hand hanging off the edge of the surgical bench.

Still.

Cold.

A slight tremor ran through her fingers — but only for a second. Then her grip tightened around the surgical drape until it creased under her palm.

And suddenly all fear burned away.

Her shoulders set. Her spine straightened. Her breathing evened out in a single, deliberate pull.

“No one touches him but me,” she said.

Her voice cut through the room this time — no hesitation, no fracture in it. One of the medtechs flinched at the tone alone.

Commanding this time.

“Prep operating room one. Full trauma surgery. Now.”

She didn’t look up as she spoke. Already her hands were moving faster, peeling back damaged material, mapping what had to be done before the machines even arrived.

Everybody moved.

Fast.

Footsteps snapped into motion. Cabinets hissed open. A crash cart rattled as it was shoved free. Surgical systems woke in cascading sequence — beeps, locks releasing, sterilizers cycling up with sharp mechanical certainty.

Machines activated around them in sharp bursts, like the room itself had been startled awake. Surgical lights flared overhead, white and merciless, bleaching colour from skin and blood alike.

Darrow stayed exactly where he was.

Watching and waiting.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink often enough. His hands hung loose at his sides like they’d forgotten what to do without an order attached to them.

She cut the remains of Sevro’s armour away with shaking hands that steadied only once the first incision began.

The moment blade met skin, her breath changed — no longer fear, no longer hesitation — just focus, narrowing everything down to tissue, bone, and the thin, stubborn line between life and loss.

Doctor first.

Break later.

Blood covered her surgical gloves almost instantly.

“He’s crashing,” one medic warned, voice cracking slightly as the monitor spiked into an ugly, irregular rhythm.

“I know.”

She didn’t look up, fingers already adjusting a clamp, tightening it until metal clicked against bone. Her wrist trembled once — then steadied.

“Pressure’s dropping.” Another voice, sharper now, urgent enough to cut through the sterile hum of machines. 

“I know.”

She shifted her stance closer to the table, shoulder pressing in as if she could physically counter the failure. Her breathing went shallow, controlled, forced into rhythm with her hands.

Gods.

A breath slipped out through clenched teeth. Not spoken loud enough for anyone to answer. Not meant to be.

Stay alive.

Her fingers tightened around the instrument so hard her knuckles went pale beneath the gloves.

Please.

For a fraction of a second, her eyes shut — just a blink too long to be procedural — then snapped open again, sharper than before.

The surgery blurred into something unreal after that.

Time stopped behaving properly. There were only fragments: a monitor screaming, a clamp dropped and replaced, someone calling for suction that arrived too late, the sharp hiss of oxygen recalibrating mid-crisis.

Hours collapsed strangely inside operating light.

No dawn. No night. Only white glare, blood-warm air, and the relentless, mechanical insistence of not letting go.

Clamp.

Suction.

Stitch.

Blood.

More blood.

Her shoulders burned. Sweat rolled down her spine beneath surgical gear, sticky and heavy.

It was twice that his heart threatened to stop entirely.

And it was twice that Y/N managed to drag him back.

At one point, she felt someone touching her shoulder gently. “You need another surgeon.”

She flinched, stiffened for a heartbeat, then shook her head, eyes still locked on Sevro. 

“No.” Her voice was sharp and clipped, jaw tight, fingers pressing harder against his chest.

“You’re exhausted—”

“No.”

Her head barely moved, only her eyes, scanning monitors and vitals, hands moving faster than thought.

She did not leave the table once.

Not once.

Because every time his pulse weakened beneath the monitors, terror clawed violently through her chest.

Not him.

Please not him.

Not Sevro.

Finally—

The bleeding eventually slowed it’s pace.

Her hands shook just enough to remind her she’d been holding her own breath.

Then stopped.

She exhaled, a sharp, trembling hiss through her nose, shoulders sagging fractionally but refusing collapse.

The monitors stabilized into something steadier.

Weak.

But alive.

Alive.

The realization nearly made her knees give out. She pressed one hand to the edge of the table, leaned close, heart hammering against her ribs as she stared down at Sevro’s unconscious face beneath the bright surgical lights.

She swallowed hard, tasting iron, and for a long moment, the room felt impossibly still.

✘ ✘ ✘ ✘

Sevro remained completely motionless and did not wake for thirty-six hours.

The first twelve passed in a blur of post-surgical chaos.

The next twelve dragged.

The final twelve nearly destroyed her all together.

The operating room eventually emptied around her piece by piece. Other wounded needed treatment. Emergency calls continued throughout the ship. Medics rotated in shifts, exhausted and hollow-eyed.

But she barely noticed any of it.

Because Sevro remained motionless beneath the dimmed lights of recovery room three.

Too pale.

Too still.

Machines breathed and beeped softly around him, monitoring every fragile thing his body was still trying to do.

And she sat beside him through all of it.

Still wearing bloodstained scrubs, smelling like iron and antiseptic and death.

At some point someone draped a blanket over her shoulders, though she couldn’t remember who.

She watched the slow rise and fall of his tattooed chest like it was the only thing keeping the universe intact.

Every now and then she reached out unconsciously just to touch his wrist, feeling his pulse beat underneath her touch.

Checking.

Alive.

Still alive.

The first time she caught herself doing it, she nearly broke apart.

Because she understood then exactly how terrified she’d been.

Not as a doctor.

Not as a medic responsible for a patient.

As her.

As someone who had already let him crawl far too deeply beneath her skin.

The room doors slid open quietly sometime during the second night cycle. She didn’t look up immediately, fingers still brushing against Sevro’s arm.

“Y/N,” she heard Darrow’s voice fill the room. It sounded rougher than usual. Tired. Gravelly in a way that made her chest tighten.

She leaned back in the chair slowly, scrubbing both hands over her face.

Only then did she realize they were still faintly stained pink despite repeated washing.

“I’m fine,” she muttered automatically, voice brittle, eyes refusing to meet his.

“You’ve been here almost two days,” he leaned against the doorway casually, though his posture was tense underneath, like he wanted to step closer but hadn’t yet.

She tightened her fists in her lap, shoulders rising slightly, “He could crash.”

“He won’t.”

Something in Darrow’s tone made her finally look at him.

The Reaper stood in the doorway out of his armour now, though bruises still shadowed one side of his face. He looked exhausted in a way that reached all the way to the bone.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then Darrow crossed the room slowly and stopped beside the bed, his eyes wearily on his best friend.

“You saved him,” he said quietly.

Not praise. Not gratitude. A fact.

She swallowed hard, throat tight. “Barely.”

Her hands twitched against the edge of the chair.

“You still did it,” Darrow whispered, his gaze lingering  steady as a tether.

The room went silent again except for the steady monitor tones, each beep punctuating her heartbeat.

Then he looked at her properly.

And whatever he saw there must have broken something in him a little, because his expression softened immediately. “You should rest.”

She shook her head faintly, lips pressed tight. “I can’t.”

“Yes,” he said gently, stepping closer. “You can.”

His hand hovered briefly at her shoulder, patient, grounding.

Her throat tightened violently without warning.

She was so tired.

Not physically.

Everywhere.

The adrenaline had finally burned away, leaving nothing behind except trembling exhaustion and fear she still hadn’t fully processed.

“I thought he was going to die,” she admitted quietly, voice breaking at the edges.

The words cracked on the way out.

Darrow stepped forward before she could look away.

And then, to her complete surprise, he pulled her into a hug.

Not formal.

Not restrained.

Real.

Warm arms wrapped around her shoulders while one large hand settled briefly against the back of her head.

And that—

That nearly undid her completely.

Because Darrow did not hug people lightly.

“You did well,” he said softly, voice pressed into the top of her head.

She shut her eyes hard.

For one horrible second she thought she might actually cry against the Reaper’s shoulder like some exhausted child.

Instead, she inhaled shakily and nodded once.

Darrow pulled back carefully, hands lingering just enough to assure presence without pressure. “I’ll stay with him for a while.”

She hesitated.

Looked toward Sevro instinctively.

Even unconscious, he somehow looked irritated about being injured.

It would have been funny if it didn’t hurt so much to see.

Finally, she stood slowly from the chair. Her entire body ached immediately in protest.

“Wake me if anything changes.” Her voice sounded far too soft in the quiet room.

“I will.”

She paused at the doorway.

Then looked back once more.

Sevro remained exactly where she left him.

Alive, but just barely. 

The shower water ran red.

At first she stood beneath it fully clothed, too exhausted to think properly while steaming water poured over her head and shoulders.

Then slowly, she watched hazily as the blood began to slide away in ribbons.

Down her arms.

Off her hands.

Across the shower floor.

Sevro’s blood.

The sight of it turning the water pink made something crack violently inside her chest.

She braced both hands against the wall suddenly, unable to contain how hard she was breathing. 

There had been so much blood.

Enough that she still remembered the feeling of it slipping warm between her fingers while trying desperately to keep him alive.

Her hands started shaking again.

Then harder.

A broken sob escaped her before she could stop it.

She slid down the shower wall until she sat curled beneath the water, forehead pressed against trembling knees while exhaustion and delayed terror finally hit all at once.

He almost died.

He almost died and she would never have told him—

The thought hurt too much to finish.

Steam curled around her while the last traces of blood spiralled slowly down the drain.

✘ ✘ ✘ ✘

When Sevro woke, the first thing he did was try to rip out his IV.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she snapped from beside the bed, her voice cracking sharply through the recovery room before his fingers could reach the tubing.

Sevro froze mid-motion.

Slowly, painfully, he turned his head toward her.

His face looked awful, bruised and cut open in places. 

Paler than usual beneath the scars.

But his eyes—

Alive.

“There she is,” he rasped weakly, relief and exhaustion mixing together as his gaze finally found hers.

Relief hit her so hard she actually had to grip the edge of the chair beside his bed.

“You absolute bastard,” she breathed, the insult falling apart beneath the sheer weight of her relief.

His mouth twitched faintly.

“Missed me?” he asked, managing the smallest hint of a grin despite looking like death itself.

“You nearly died,” she shot back, staring at him as if making sure he was actually there.

“Bit dramatic,” Sevro muttered, barely lifting an eyebrow before the effort seemed to tire him.

“You flatlined twice,” she reminded him, refusing to let him joke his way around that particular fact.

“Only twice? Much be losing my touch,” he uttered dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before a wince cut the expression short.

She stared at him in pure disbelief.

Then suddenly she was moving.

Making her way around the bed in three fast steps before sitting down next to him on the thin mattress, grabbing his face carefully between both hands like she still needed proof he was real.

Sevro went completely still beneath her touch.

Not joking now.

Not deflecting.

Just staring at her.

“You idiot,” she whispered shakily. “You stupid suicidal idiot.”

Something shifted in his expression then.

His injured hand lifted slowly, painfully, until it wrapped weakly around her wrist, “I saw you.”

She frowned slightly, studying his face.

“What?” she asked quietly, unable to read the strange look in his eyes.

“When I was bleeding out,” he admitted, his voice rough and quiet from the damage to his throat. “Saw your face.”

Her chest tightened painfully.

“Sevro—” she started, but the words caught before they could go any further.

“I knew if I made it back…” he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping briefly to where her hand rested beside his, “It’d be because of you.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

Sevro looked at her like he was trying to figure out how much honesty he could survive.

Probably not much.

Still, he tried.

“You’re in my head all the time now,” he muttered bitterly, a faint grimace crossing his face. “It’s gory damn annoying.”

A wet laugh escaped her unexpectedly.

He continued staring at her.

Serious despite the words.

“You consume me, Y/N,” he confessed, the admission sounding almost reluctant as it left his mouth.

The confession sounded like it physically hurt him to say.

Which somehow made it worse.

Better.

Everything.

His thumb brushed weakly against her wrist.

“I go into missions thinking about you,” he admitted, his jaw tightening as though the truth itself was uncomfortable. “Wake up thinking about you. Half the reason I survived down there was because all I could think was—”

He stopped abruptly, like he’d already said too much.

Her eyes burned instantly, tears beginning to blur her vision.

“What?” she whispered, afraid of the answer and desperate for it all at once.

Sevro looked away toward the ceiling briefly.

Actually embarrassed.

A miracle.

“That I wasn’t done with you yet,” he finished quietly, refusing to look at her.

Gods.

That nearly shattered her.

She leaned down before she could think better of it and pressed her forehead carefully against his.

The same way he had before the mission.

Only this time neither of them pulled away.

“I thought you were gone,” she admitted softly to him, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady.

Sevro exhaled shakily against her skin.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his eyes slipping shut for a moment. “Me too.”

Then, because he was still Sevro even now, he added weakly, a crooked smile tugging at his bruised mouth. “Pretty hot that you carved me open though.”

She laughed through tears immediately, the sound breaking free before she could stop it.

“You really are unbelievable,” she informed him, shaking her head in utter disbelief.

“Saved my life. Violated me medically. Basically married now,” he declared with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no business making jokes in his condition.

“You were unconscious,” she pointed out dryly, rolling her eyes.

“Still counts,” he insisted, shrugging without hesitation.

She shook her head helplessly, smiling despite herself.

And Sevro—

Sevro looked at her like he'd never seen anything more dangerous in his life.

The room fell quiet after that.

Not truly silent — the recovery monitors still hummed softly beside the bed, engines still vibrated faintly somewhere deep in the ship — but the noise faded into the background until it hardly mattered.

Because all she could seem to hear was him breathing.

All she could see was the way Sevro looked at her now.

Open.

Or as open as Sevro Barca could possibly be without immediately setting something on fire out of self-defence.

His forehead still rested lightly against hers. His fingers remained curled weakly around her wrist, rough and warm despite the blood loss.

Neither of them dared to move away.

For once, there was no armour left between them.

No filthy joke quick enough to fully hide behind.

Though she could practically see him trying to think of one.

“You keep staring at me like that,” Sevro murmured hoarsely, “and I’m gonna start believing you actually like me.”

She huffed a soft laugh through lingering tears. “You are unbearable.”

“And yet…” he whispered.

That crooked little almost-smile nearly ruined her.

Her gaze flicked downward before she could stop herself.

To his mouth.

Bruised now.

Split slightly at one corner.

But still Sevro.

Still him.

His breathing pattern changed immediately, barely noticeable.

But she felt it.

Saw the exact second he realized what she was looking at.

For all his recklessness in battle, Sevro went strangely still in moments like this. As if tenderness confused him more than violence ever could.

“You should probably rest,” Y/N whispered, though she still made no move to leave.

“Probably.”

His eyes searched her face carefully, like he still couldn’t quite believe she was real. Like maybe he thought if he blinked too hard she’d disappear.

“You’ve been crying,” he said quietly.

She stiffened immediately.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have,” his thumb brushed faintly against her wrist again, “Your eyes are all red and angry.”

“I’m a doctor. I was stressed,” she argued rationally, as though that somehow strengthened her case.

“You cried because you like me,” Sevro countered immediately, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone currently held together by stitches.

“I cried because you lost half your blood volume,” she shot back, refusing to give him an inch.

“Romantic,” he deadpanned.

She rolled her eyes softly at that, but her chest hurt with affection so intense it frightened her a little.

He watched her for another long second before his expression shifted again, becoming smaller and somehow vulnerable.

“You really stayed?” he asked quietly.

The question hit harder than anything else had, because underneath it sat something ugly and old and wounded.

Her heart nearly broke open.

“Of course I stayed,” she answered without hesitation.

Sevro swallowed once, his throat moving beneath bruised skin.

“You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” he muttered, staring somewhere near her shoulder instead of directly at her.

“Why?” she asked softly.

“Because I’ll believe you,” he admitted.

The honesty of it stole the air from her lungs.

Slowly, carefully, she lifted her other hand to his face again, her fingers brushing through the mess of golden hair near his temple.

Sevro closed his eyes instantly.

Not dramatically.

Instinctively.

Like no one touched him softly often enough.

“You absolute idiot,” she whispered, her thumb grazing his cheek.

“Your idiot though,” he replied automatically.

The words were meant as a joke.

Deflection.

But neither of them laughed.

Suddenly the space between them felt impossibly small.

Sevro opened his eyes again slowly, and the look in them this time felt raw, hungry and terrified all at once. 

Like he wanted this so badly it made him angry.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he warned softly, his gaze dropping briefly to her mouth, “and I’m gonna do something medically irresponsible.”

Despite everything, she smiled.

“You can barely sit upright,” she pointed out.

“Details,” he dismissed.

Her hand slid carefully along his jaw, mindful of bruises.

Sevro leaned into the touch before he could stop himself.

The tiny unconscious movement shattered the last of her restraint completely.

She kissed him.

Softly at first, tentative.

A question more than anything.

For one heartbeat Sevro froze entirely beneath her.

Then he made a rough sound low in his throat and kissed her back like he was a man starving.

His hand came up abruptly to the back of her neck despite the pain it clearly caused him, attempting to sit up as he pulled her closer with surprising desperation for someone half-dead two days ago.

The kiss turned messy immediately.

Not polished and definitely not graceful.

Just pure Sevro.

Too much feeling crammed into one moment all at once.

She could taste the faint copper of blood where his lip had split. His breathing hitched sharply every time she touched him. Like he genuinely could not process this was happening.

When she finally pulled back slightly for air, his forehead dropped heavily against hers again.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, sounding genuinely stunned.

A helpless laugh escaped her as she sniffled, keeping her eyes closed for the briefest of moments, committing this feeling to memory.

Sevro stared at her for a long moment, then suddenly looked deeply offended. “You waited until I looked like fried death to kiss me?” 

“You tried to remove your IV five minutes ago,” she reminded him with raised brows.

Sevro shrugged boyishly, “Confidence is attractive.”

“You are on three painkillers.”

“And still incredibly handsome,” he informed her gravely.

She laughed again, quieter this time.

Gods, she loved him.

The bravado had cracked.

“What?” he asked carefully, immediately noticing the shift in her expression.

She shook her head slightly as she hesitated for a moment before cupping his face gently again, “You scared me.”

Something vulnerable flickered across his face.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Sorry.”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Not sorry. Just... don't do that again.”

Sevro snorted weakly, “Doc, my entire lifestyle is ‘that again.’”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” he replied.

He studied her for another long second before adding more softly, “I tried.”

She frowned slightly, “What do you mean?”

“When it got bad down there,” he explained, his gaze dropping briefly to the blanket across his lap, “I actually tried to stay alive.”

Emotion closed painfully around her throat again.

Because she understood exactly what he meant.

Not fighting because it was instinct.

Not surviving out of spite.

Trying, for her.

Sevro reached out, his fingers brushing shakily against her cheek.

“Gory hell,” he muttered, almost to himself as he looked at her. “You really got me, didn’t you?”

She smiled faintly through burning eyes, “Looks that way.”

He stared at her one more second.

Then kissed her again first this time.

Slow.

Certain.

Like despite everything terrible in the universe, this one thing was real.

©𝙇𝙄𝙇𝘼𝘾𝙎𝙉𝙄𝘿