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maymaylyn · 21 hours ago

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Too Close

angst / comfort

Frank Woods x Medic reader (fem)

This is longer than I thought, I am so sorry. Might be a little occ but I tried y’all.

—————————————

The mission had gone sideways fast. You barely had time to register the chaos—bullets whizzing past, bodies dropping, and the sharp scent of gunpowder thick in the air. The extraction was messy, too—Mason took a round to the shoulder, Woods got the hell beaten out of him in a hand-to-hand fight, and you were running purely on adrenaline, patching them up the moment you were back in the safe house.

You barely noticed the sting in your side. There wasn’t time for pain.

Mason was sitting on the table, wincing as you stitched him up. “You sure you’re good?” he asked, voice tight.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, focused on his wound.

Woods, leaning against the doorway with dried blood on his knuckles and a split lip, huffed. “You always say that.”

You ignored him, hands steady as you secured Mason’s bandages. “You’re lucky. Bullet went clean through,” you told Mason, stepping back.

Your vision blurred slightly when you moved too fast.

Mason eyed you suspiciously but didn’t push. “Thanks, doc,” he murmured, flexing his shoulder.

You turned to Woods next, stepping between his legs as he sat on the counter. He had bruises forming along his jaw, a nasty gash above his eyebrow, and his knuckles were raw. You grabbed his face, tilting it toward the light.

“You look like hell,” you murmured.

Woods smirked. “You should see the other guy.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing gauze and antiseptic, working in practiced silence. He didn’t flinch, just watched you with sharp, dark eyes, like he was studying you.

The edges of your vision darkened again, nausea curling in your gut.

You shook it off. Just exhaustion. Just stress.

“You done?” Woods asked after a moment, voice unusually quiet.

You opened your mouth to respond—but the room tilted violently.

Your knees buckled. The only reason you didn’t hit the floor was because Woods lunged forward, catching you just in time.

“Shit—hey, hey—what the hell?” His grip was strong, arms wrapped around you as he held you up.

Your breathing hitched, and then his hand slid against something warm—sticky.

Woods froze.

His jaw clenched, his hands finding your side, pulling up your blood-soaked shirt. His breath left him in a sharp exhale.

“You’re fucking bleeding.”

You blinked slowly, finally looking down at the wound in your side. “Oh.”

That was all you got out before your body gave out entirely.

Woods had been through hell before—torture, war, bloodbaths that left him half-dead and running on nothing but sheer willpower. He’d faced death more times than he could count.

But nothing—nothing—compared to the sheer, heart-stopping terror of watching you go limp in his arms.

“Hey- hey! Stay with me!” His voice was rough, desperate, hands pressing hard against the wound at your side. Blood seeped through his fingers, warm and slick, staining his hands in a way that made his stomach twist.

You didn’t respond.

His heart slammed against his ribs like a caged animal.

“Shit,” Mason hissed from across the room, shoving himself off the table, still pale from his own gunshot wound. “She was bleeding this whole damn time?”

“She didn’t say anything,” Woods snapped, his voice breaking with something dangerously close to panic. “Fucking idiot—” His breath hitched as he pulled you closer.

Mason was watching him now. Really watching him.

And Mason knew.

Woods never said it. Hell, he barely even admitted it to himself. But Mason had seen the way Woods looked at you—like you were something worth a damn in this godforsaken world. And now, watching Woods fall apart in front of him, Mason felt something cold settle in his chest.

Because Woods loved you.

And you didn’t even know.

Mason swallowed hard, moving beside him, his own hands steady despite the anger burning behind his ribs. “We gotta stop the bleeding. Woods—”

“I know,” Woods barked, but there was something raw in his voice, something broken.

He hadn’t let go of you. Wouldn’t let go.

Mason exhaled sharply. “She’s gonna be okay.”

Woods didn’t respond.

Mason had seen Woods in a lot of bad states—angry, broken, half-dead, and running on nothing but adrenaline and rage. But he had never seen him like this.

Woods was shaking.

Not in fear, not exactly. It was something deeper, something worse. His breathing was ragged, his jaw clenched so hard Mason swore he could hear his teeth grind.

But what stood out most was his hands.

They were still pressed against your side, covered in blood. Your blood.

Mason stayed calm because one of them had to. His own shoulder was screaming in pain, and his head was still spinning, but he forced himself to focus. He had seen enough people bleed out to know how fast things could go south. He needed to stop the bleeding, get you stable, keep Woods from completely losing his goddamn mind—

But Woods wasn’t listening.

His hands were shaking against your skin, his knuckles white where he gripped you. He was hating the way your blood felt on him—like it was something that shouldn’t be there, something wrong.

He had killed more men than he could count, wiped their blood off his hands like it was nothing. But this?

This was yours.

“Woods,” Mason said firmly, forcing him to look up.

Woods’ eyes were wild—raw, like something was cracking apart inside him. He wasn’t just panicking. He was spiraling.

“She’s not dying,” Mason snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the fog in Woods’ head. “But if you keep freezing up like this, she sure as hell will.”

Woods sucked in a breath, his grip tightening on you.

“Get your shit together, Frank.”

Woods blinked, swallowing hard. His body was coiled tight, his mind screaming at him to do something, to fix it—but Mason was right. He needed to move.

It felt like wading through quicksand. His hands pressed down harder, trying to stop the bleeding, but the more he did, the more he hated the feeling of your blood on his skin. It was warm, sticky, and too much. It wasn’t supposed to be there.

You were supposed to be patching him up, rolling your eyes at his stubbornness, telling him to “sit still, dammit” when he got too antsy under your hands. Not like this. Not like this.

Mason was right beside him, working fast, steady as ever—because one of them had to be. His fingers dug through the med kit, tearing open a bandage with his teeth before pressing gauze down over the wound.

“Pressure. We keep pressure on it.” Mason’s voice was even, controlled. He’d been through this before, seen worse. But Woods could tell—he wasn’t happy either.

Mason wasn’t the one losing his mind, but he wasn’t unaffected.

Because Mason knew.

He knew that this wasn’t just another wounded teammate to Woods. This wasn’t just another medic who got unlucky. This was you.

And Woods was hanging by a thread.

“Woods.” Mason’s voice cut through his haze again. “We gotta get her stable.”

“I know that.” It came out harsher than he meant, but he didn’t care. His heart was pounding, and his hands weren’t steady like they should be. Why weren’t they steady?

Your blood was still there.

He wanted to wipe it off.

No. He wanted to go back—to the moment before you took that bullet, before you made sure they were patched up first, before you looked him in the eyes with that same stubborn look you always had, as if you weren’t dying right in front of him.

The memory made something snap in his chest.

“Goddammit, sweetheart,” he muttered under his breath, voice raw as he tightened his grip on you. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You didn’t answer.

Your head lolled against his chest, your breathing shallow, and that scared him more than anything.

“Stay with me, you hear me?” His voice cracked. His fingers pressed against your pulse—too weak, too damn faint.

Mason didn’t stop working, but Woods could feel his eyes on him. Watching. Knowing.

And Woods knew what Mason was thinking.

That this wasn’t just fear. It was something worse.

Love.

And Woods had never told you.

Mason had known for a while. Maybe even before Woods did. But he never said anything. Never pushed. Because what the hell was there to say? Woods wasn’t the kind of guy who said things like that. He just was. He was there. He protected you. He made sure you had his jacket when it was cold, made sure you ate after long missions, made sure no bastard so much as looked at you wrong.

He loved you in all the ways he knew how.

But none of that mattered if you died here in his arms.

Mason cursed. “She’s losing too much blood.”

“I know,” Woods snapped, voice hoarse. He hated this. He hated this so much.

He hated your blood on his hands.

He hated how fucking helpless he felt.

But most of all—he hated himself for never telling you.

His grip on you tightened. “You’re gonna be fine, you hear me?”

Nothing.

He shook you gently. “Come on, sweetheart. You don’t get to do this to me.”

Mason pressed harder against the wound, but Woods barely noticed. His world had shrunk down to you.

Woods could feel it before he even checked.

Your pulse—weak and thready just moments ago—was gone.

His breath caught, and for a second, the world went completely silent.

Then—“No. NO—”

A roar ripped from his throat, pure rage and desperation colliding as he shoved Mason’s hands out of the way and pressed both palms to your chest.

He started compressions immediately. Hard. Fast.

“Come on—come on, dammit!” His voice was raw, shaking with something Mason had never heard before—something broken, something terrified.

Mason bit back the pain in his own shoulder, watching as Woods worked—watching as you didn’t respond.

He clenched his jaw, refusing to let his own fear show. Woods was barely hanging on as it was. If Mason lost it too, then there’d be no one left to fix this.

Woods pushed down on your chest, counting under his breath, his entire body coiled with panic.

Then—he didn’t hesitate.

He tilted your head back, pinched your nose shut, and pressed his mouth to yours, breathing life back into you.

He pulled back.

Nothing.

His heart pounded like a war drum, his hands moving on instinct, pressing harder against your chest. “Come on, sweetheart, don’t do this to me,” he muttered, voice cracking.

Mason wanted to tell him to pace himself—to not push so hard, to not break your ribs in the process—but fuck that. You needed to come back.

Woods did it again—another breath, another desperate plea, another moment of sheer, blind panic.

Then—

You gasped.

Eyes fluttered as you coughed.

Your entire body jerked as air flooded back into your lungs.

Woods choked out something between a curse and a prayer, his hands immediately cradling your face, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Mason let out a sharp breath, running a shaking hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or shock making him feel sick. Probably both.

Because you were dead.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute but—you were gone.

Woods let out a breathless, shaky laugh, his hands trembling as he brushed damp hair from your face. His thumb ran over your cheek, like he was making sure you were really here.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Your eyes fluttered open, dazed, confused, and unfocused. Your voice was rough— too rough, “…Woods?”

His breath hitched.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “I got you.”

Mason exhaled slowly, still watching you like you might slip away again. “Jesus. You were gone for a bit there.”

You barely seemed to register his words. You blinked sluggishly, trying to focus on Woods, still lost somewhere between consciousness and the void you had almost fallen into.

Woods didn’t let go of you. He was still too wound up, still shaking, still hating the blood on his hands—your blood—but it didn’t matter.

Because you were alive.

———————

The first thing you registered was pain.

A deep, aching pressure in your chest, sharp and unrelenting with every breath. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to your ribs, and for a moment, you weren’t sure why.

Your eyelids felt heavy as you blinked against the harsh fluorescent light, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling your nose. Machines beeped steadily, their rhythm annoyingly persistent. You were in med bay.

You inhaled slowly, but even that sent a sharp pain through your sternum. You winced. What the hell happened?

A shift in movement to your left made you turn your head.

Frank Woods was sitting in the chair beside your bed.

And he was too quiet.

That alone sent a spike of unease through you. Woods was never silent. He was always talking—gruff remarks, teasing jabs, something. But now? He was just watching you, arms crossed, his whole body tense like a coiled spring.

“…Frank?” Your voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

His jaw clenched. “You’re awake.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t relief. It was something else.

You swallowed, trying to put the pieces together. You remembered the mission—Mason getting shot, Woods getting the hell beaten out of him. You remembered helping them.

Then…

Your chest ached again. You shifted slightly, wincing at the pressure. Why did it hurt so bad?

Frank exhaled sharply through his nose, his fists clenching. He looked like he was trying to hold himself back.

You frowned. “What… what happened?”

His eyes flickered up to meet yours, dark and unreadable. But there was something else there. Something you didn’t quite recognize.

“You don’t remember?” His voice was rough, like he’d been talking—or yelling—a lot before this.

You tried to think, tried to force your mind to fill in the gaps.

You had been fine. You were standing. Then—

Your body swayed. You felt lightheaded. You said something to Woods. Then—

Nothing.

Your fingers curled against the sheets. “I—” You hesitated. “I remember passing out.”

Frank let out a breath, slow and heavy. His fingers drummed against his knee like he was holding something in.

“You weren’t breathing.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your heart stuttered, an unfamiliar fear creeping into your veins.

“…What?”

Frank’s gaze was sharp, unwavering. “Your pulse stopped,” he bit out.

Your chest suddenly felt tighter, like the air had been sucked out of the room.

That’s why you hurt.

That’s why every breath felt like a goddamn knife in your ribs.

Your fingers instinctively brushed over your sternum, feeling the dull throb of bruising beneath the hospital gown. Broken ribs, but—

You swallowed thickly, mind spinning.

“I—” Your throat was dry.

“You died,” Frank said bluntly, and you flinched at the way the words hit.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

You didn’t know what to say. You couldn’t process it. You had been gone. And Frank—

You finally looked at him, really looked at him.

He was exhausted. Shadows lingered under his eyes, his knuckles still bruised and scraped from the fight. His lip was split. He hadn’t left your side.

But the worst part?

The worst part was his hands.

They were still faintly stained with blood. Your blood.

Your throat tightened.

“…Frank.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away.

Unconsciously his fingers reached out, barely brushing against yours.

The moment Mason walked in, Frank pulled back.

You barely had time to process the loss of warmth before he looked down, jaw tight, shoulders hunched like he was trying to hide something.

Mason, still bandaged up but moving stiffly, took one look at the two of you and exhaled through his nose. His sharp blue eyes flickered between you and Woods, his expression unreadable.

“You’re awake,” he muttered, stepping closer. He sounded relieved, but his voice was edged with something else—frustration.

You swallowed, shifting slightly against the stiff pillows. “Yeah… guess I am.”

Mason’s lips pressed into a thin line. He was calm, but not because he wasn’t angry—because he was forcing himself to be.

Because one of them had to be.

His gaze settled on Frank for a second, and something passed between them. Something unspoken.

Your stomach twisted.

Mason let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “You almost fucking died.”

You winced. “Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “That supposed to be funny?”

You hesitated, then sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. “No. I don’t—I don’t know what it’s supposed to be.”

Mason crossed his arms, looking you over like he was checking for any sign that you were about to collapse again. “You scared the hell outta him, y’know.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t need to look at Frank to know Mason was right.

Woods still wouldn’t look at you.

Mason ran a hand through his hair, glancing at Woods again before shaking his head. “Anyway. Doc says you’ll be fine, but you’re not moving from that bed for at least another twenty-four hours.”

You frowned. “I feel fine.”

Mason shot you a look. “Your ribs say otherwise.”

You sighed, slumping against the pillows. “Great.”

Silence settled over the room, heavy and thick.

Mason lingered for a moment longer, then exhaled sharply. “I’ll give you two a minute.”

Your heart skipped.

Frank’s jaw tightened. “Mason—”

But Mason just shot him a knowing look. “Don’t be a dumbass, Woods.”

And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving you alone with Frank.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Frank was still looking down, his fists tight against his thighs. He was stiff, his breathing controlled, but you knew him. You knew how to read him, even when he didn’t want you to.

And right now?

Right now, he was terrified.

You swallowed. “Frank.”

Nothing.

You hesitated, then reached for his hand—the one he had been holding yours with just minutes ago.

His fingers twitched when you touched him.

He still wouldn’t look at you.

“Frank,” you tried again, softer this time.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, and for a second, you thought he was going to pull away. But then—

His fingers curled around yours.

Not tight. Not desperate.

Just there.

“…I thought I lost you,” he muttered, voice rough.

Your heart ached.

“You didn’t.”

His grip tightened.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Not for lack of trying.”

And finally, finally, he looked up at you.

And the look in his eyes nearly took the breath from your lungs.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Mason’s shoulder was shot. He could barely lift his arm, let alone do CPR.

There was only one person who could’ve brought you back.

It was Frank.

Your fingers twitched against his, heartbeat thudding in your ears. You looked at him—really looked at him—at the exhaustion clinging to his frame, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands were still stained faintly with your blood.

It was all Frank.

Every desperate compression, every breath forced into your lungs, every second where he thought you were gone—it was him.

You tried to speak, but your throat was too dry, too tight. Your ribs ached, but not from CPR anymore—it was from the realization hitting you like a truck.

“Frank…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Just sat there, holding your hand like he needed it.

His voice was lower now, quieter. “Yeah.”

You swallowed, staring at him. “It was you.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

“Frank, you—” You broke off, shaking your head as the weight of it all settled in your chest. “You saved me.”

He let out a slow breath, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly over the back of your hand. “Yeah.”

You squeezed your fingers around his. “You saved me.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something—like the words were right there, on the tip of his tongue.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his fingers curled a little tighter around yours, grounding himself.

Your chest ached for a different reason now. It settled in your chest—heavy, undeniable.

Frank had saved you. Frank had brought you back.

And now, sitting here in the quiet hum of the med bay, his fingers still wrapped around yours, you realized something else—something even heavier.

Frank loved you.

Maybe he hadn’t said it, maybe he didn’t even realize it himself, but it was there, plain as day in the way he couldn’t let go. The way he kept looking at you like you were something that had nearly slipped through his fingers.

And it wasn’t just the fear in his eyes.

It was the anger.

The frustration, the quiet rage beneath his breath when he muttered, “Not for lack of trying.”

He was mad. Mad at you. Mad at himself. Mad at the whole goddamn world.

You squeezed his hand, grounding yourself in the feel of his calloused fingers against yours. “…Frank.”

His grip tensed just slightly before he let out a slow exhale.

Your voice was softer now, careful, like pressing against a wound. “Talk to me.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at your hands, the way your fingers were still laced together like neither of you wanted to be the first to let go.

Then, his jaw tightened, and his grip tightened with it.

“You didn’t even fucking say anything.” His voice was rough, low, full of something he hadn’t let himself feel until now. “You were shot, and you didn’t—” His breath hitched, and suddenly, his hand was pulling away from yours.

But you didn’t let go.

You held on.

His eyes snapped up to yours, burning, furious, raw.

“Do you have any idea what that was like?” His voice cracked slightly at the end, but he pushed forward anyway. “Watching you drop—watching you stop breathing—” His fingers curled against his knee like he wanted to punch something, his knuckles white.

Your throat felt too tight to speak.

“You died.” His voice dropped to something hoarse, almost broken. “I was sitting there—holding your fucking blood in my hands, and you just—”

He stopped himself, inhaling sharply like he was trying to shove it all down. But he couldn’t. Not this time.

He shook his head. “You scared the hell outta me, sweetheart.”

Your heart clenched. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” He leaned forward suddenly, his elbows resting on his knees, his head ducking like he couldn’t look at you anymore. His hands clenched, open and close, like he was fighting himself.

You hesitated to speak, but your grip held steady.

He stilled.

You exhaled, voice quiet. “I’m here, Frank.”

His fingers twitched.

And then, after a long moment, he finally—finally—let his hand settle over yours.

He let out a slow breath, like he was letting something go.

“You almost weren’t,” he muttered.

You swallowed hard. “…But I am.”

His grip tightened.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, finally—barely above a whisper, so low you almost didn’t hear it—

“I can’t lose you.”

Your chest ached, but not from your ribs this time.

You turned your hand over in his, threading your fingers together.

“I can’t lose you either Frank.”

Woods went still.

Your words hung in the air, heavier than anything else in this room—heavier than the blood on his hands, heavier than the fear that had been clawing at his chest since you hit the ground.

He swallowed hard, his fingers flexing against yours, like he wasn’t sure if he should hold on tighter or let go before this became something he couldn’t take back.

But you didn’t let go.

You squeezed his hand, grounding him, pulling him back from whatever dark place he’d been trapped in since your heart.

His jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing like he was bracing for a hit. Like he didn’t believe you. Like he didn’t think he was worth being afraid of losing.

That hurt more than anything.

You shifted, ignoring the way your ribs protested, using what little strength you had to pull him closer. “Frank,” you pressed, making him look at you.

His eyes met yours—dark, raw, guarded.

“I mean it.”

For a long moment, he just stared.

Then, something in his expression cracked.

His breath left him in a sharp exhale, and before you could say anything else, his hand pulled away—only to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours.

You sucked in a breath, your pulse spiking under his touch.

He was so close. His warmth, his scent, the way his chest rose and fell unevenly like he was still trying to catch up with everything that had happened—

“…You don’t get to scare me like that again,” he muttered, voice gruff, like he hated how vulnerable he sounded.

Your lips twitched, despite yourself. “No promises.”

His fingers tightened in your hair, and you swore he almost smiled.

Then, finally—his forehead pressed a little firmer against yours, his breath fanning across your lips as he muttered, “You’re a pain in my ass.”

Rethinking what happened ‘wait cpr?’ you still managed to breathe out, “So how was it? Our first kiss.”

Woods froze.

You felt his entire body tense, his fingers twitching against your hair like you had just hit him with a live grenade.

His forehead was still resting against yours, his breath still brushing your lips, but everything about him locked up the second you spoke.

“…What?”

You gave him a weak smirk, despite the ache in your ribs. “You heard me.”

Woods leaned back just enough to look at you, his eyes narrowing, sharp and searching—like he was trying to figure out if you were fucking with him or if you really just asked that.

And judging by the way Woods was malfunctioning right now, you had your answer.

“…So?” you pressed, raising a brow.

Woods blinked at you, his jaw working like he was fighting a war in his own damn head. His ears were turning red, and if you weren’t half-dead in a hospital bed, you would’ve laughed at the fact that Frank Woods—the Frank Woods—was getting flustered.

Then—

His lips curled into a smirk, slow and dangerous.

“You tell me, sweetheart,” he rasped, tilting his head slightly. “You were the one who came back for more.”

Your breath hitched.

Oh. Oh.

So that’s how he wanted to play it.

Your pulse skipped, and Woods definitely noticed because his smirk widened.

“It could have been better,” he murmured, his voice dropping just slightly.

You narrowed your eyes, pretending to consider it, even as your heart hammered.

“Well,” you mused, “I was dead, so my memory’s a little fuzzy. Might need a refresher.”

Woods’ smirk faltered just a little.

Like he wasn’t sure if you were serious.

Like he wanted to take that challenge but wasn’t sure if he should.

Your lips twitched, daring him.

For a moment the weight of everything that had happened had almost been lost.

Then, Woods exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, pulling back slightly—but not before letting his fingers linger against yours.

You grinned. “Well, you were the life of me, so I’d say we’re even.”

Woods groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“So you’ll kiss me when I’m dying but not when I’m alive?”

Woods froze mid-movement, his fingers still resting against your waist through the blanket. His eyes snapped to yours, and you knew you had him.

You watched the muscle in his jaw twitch, the flicker of something dangerous behind his dark eyes as your words settled.

You smirked, tilting your head slightly despite the dull ache in your ribs.

Woods inhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening just slightly before he pulled back, running a hand down his face like he was trying to keep himself from losing it.

“Jesus Christ, woman,” he muttered.

“Well?” you pressed, enjoying how he was definitely struggling now. “That hardly seems fair, Frank.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, his tongue swiping over his split lip before he leaned forward again, his weight shifting onto his arms on either side of you.

“You really wanna test me right now, sweetheart?” His voice had dropped, lower, rougher—like a damn challenge.

Your heart jumped.

But you didn’t back down.

“Maybe.” You smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. “I did almost die, after all. Least you could do is make it up to me.”

Woods exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Again, technically, you were the life of me—”

Before you could finish, Woods moved.

His hand was suddenly on your jaw, tilting your chin up, his thumb brushing along your cheek. His face was so close now, his breath warm as it fanned across your lips.

Your smirk faltered.

“You wanna run that mouth again?” he murmured, voice low and edged with something that sent heat curling through your stomach.

You swallowed hard, pulse jumping. “Maybe.”

He huffed a small, breathy laugh—then, before you could say anything else—

He kissed you.

Not soft. Not hesitant.

Frank Woods kissed you like you were something he had almost lost forever.

And you, despite the dull ache in your ribs, kissed him back just as hard.