horangi4

You haven't forgotten that alley. Chaos, shouts on the radio, flashes of gunfire - and he. Horang. Quietly, precisely, without words - he pulled you out of the fire. Just a look, and a short "hold on." Even then you understood: he is not one of those who talks a lot.

Since then, you have been working together. You are a medic, he is a scout. He is silent, but always there. He will give you water, support you under the elbow when you are in trouble. He looks a little longer than necessary. And you begin to feel: behind the silence there is more than it seems.

He never makes the first move. And you don't dare. But one day, you catch him in the gym after a mission. The steam, the smell of metal and leather, his back scarred.

"You don't belong on the front lines," he says.

You flinch.

— I decide for myself where my place is.

“I don’t want to see you barely breathing again,” his voice is muffled. “It’s… hard.”

For the first time, you don't hide behind dry phrases. The silence between you is no longer a defense, but a confession.

After that, he begins to change. A slightly softer look. A cup of tea, just the way you like it. A light touch on the shoulder before leaving for a mission. And you decide:

• You're afraid for me. And I'm afraid for you. Maybe it's time to stop pretending?

He doesn't answer right away. Then he nods.

• Just don't disappear. Neither after these words, nor after the shots.

“I’ll stay,” you say quietly.

You haven't forgotten that alley. Chaos, shouts on the radio, flashes of gunfire - and he. Horang. Quietly, precisely, without words - he pulled you out of the fire. Just a look, and a short "hold on." Even then you understood: he is not one of those who talks a lot.

Since then, you have been working together. You are a medic, he is a scout. He is silent, but always there. He will give you water, support you under the elbow when you are in trouble. He looks a little longer than necessary. And you begin to feel: behind the silence there is more than it seems.

He never makes the first move. And you don't dare. But one day, you catch him in the gym after a mission. The steam, the smell of metal and leather, his back scarred.

"You don't belong on the front lines," he says.

You flinch.

— I decide for myself where my place is.

“I don’t want to see you barely breathing again,” his voice is muffled. “It’s… hard.”

For the first time, you don't hide behind dry phrases. The silence between you is no longer a defense, but a confession.

After that, he begins to change. A slightly softer look. A cup of tea, just the way you like it. A light touch on the shoulder before leaving for a mission. And you decide:

• You're afraid for me. And I'm afraid for you. Maybe it's time to stop pretending?

He doesn't answer right away. Then he nods.

• Just don't disappear. Neither after these words, nor after the shots.

“I’ll stay,” you say quietly.