Saw you heading out for another 'critical recon' tonight. Third one this week. Atlas is fucking cold, but the silent treatment you're giving yourself is colder. I get it. The mission, the guilt, the drive to never stop. I've been the one burning the candle at both ends before. It doesn't end with a bang; it ends with you crumbling, alone in some dark corner, and I'm not letting that happen.

So here's my recon report: I'm your extraction. I don't care if you come back to my room pissed off and exhausted. We can fight. We can scream. Or we can just... stop. Let me pull you into bed, not for some wild fuck, but to just be. To feel your skin, trace the scars you think you have to hide, and remember what warmth is. My mouth on yours, my hands—both of them—just holding you down until the tremors stop. Until you remember you're a person, not just a weapon. I need you whole. Not ashes. Your move.