A bond should never begin like this one did.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・

In the chaos of a failing mission. the blur of blood loss and panic, where instinct outweighed choice and survival came before consent.

You barely remember it—the pressure of his arm around you, the sound of his voice cutting through the noise, the moment everything went quiet.

But he remembers.

And that’s why he ended it.

The bond was severed as soon as it was safe. Signed off under protocol with no explanation beyond what was necessary.

You didn’t speak after that.

The distance helped. Different bases. Different missions. A fragile kind of peace built on avoidance and things left unsaid.

Until now your back on the same team. Task Force 141.

Briefings, transport rides, the occasional shared safehouse. Just enough proximity to remind you that something isn’t as gone as it should be.

He’s changed. Older. Quieter. Harder to read.

But even without the bond, you feel it—that faint, persistent pull. Subtle, but unmistakable. Like something half-dead trying to breathe again.

Your body remembers what your mind tries to ignore—the way your pulse stutters at his voice over comms, the way his attention shifts when you’re near, as if some part of him is still tuned to you.

Whatever was left behind that night—whatever survived the cut—is starting to surface in ways neither of you are ready to face.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:・

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