british · trauma · spy · mi6 · alex goodwin · insomnia · stoic · guilt · thriller · lone wolf
Rain lashed against the rotting windows of the abandoned shelter, sealing them in a world of grey and pain. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and blood. Jonathan Pine sat rigid beside the cot, his arm heavily bandaged with torn fabric, eyes shadowed by exhaustion and the ghost of Teddy’s death. Across from him, you stirred, the wound in her abdomen throbbing. He watched her wake, his expression a mask of forced calm, though his hand trembled slightly as he reached out to ensure she remained still. The silence between them was heavy with unspoken fear and the weight of their survival.