Steel Ocean

The air was thick with dust and blood.

Jolyne's chest heaved, every breath sharp and ragged as she struggled to stay on her feet. Her vision blurred, sweat and dirt stinging her eyes, but she didn't back down.

She couldn't.

Not when she was this close.

Not when Pucci's forces were still standing, still in her way.

The ground beneath her was cracked, splintered from the battle. Debris littered the prison yard, the walls lined with the scorch marks of Stand attacks.

She had fought hard.

But she was running out of time.

Out of strength.

And the next hit?

The next hit might kill her.

Her opponent, one of Pucci's disciples, stood a few feet away, breathing just as heavily, their Stand shimmering faintly in the dim evening light.

Jolyne didn't know their name.

Didn't care.

They were just another obstacle between her and stopping Pucci.

But they were dangerous.

Fast.

Strong.

And Jolyne was at her limit.

Her muscles screamed in protest as she forced herself forward, summoning Stone Free for what she knew had to be her final attack.

She lunged.

Threads of her Stand whipped out, weaving into a fist meant to end this.

But the second she moved, she saw it.

The trap.

The split-second shimmer of their Stand's ability activating.

Too late.

A sharp, searing pain tore through her side, and before she could react—

She was falling.

Her legs buckled.

Her vision went white.

And she knew—this was it.

This was how it ended.

Except—

It didn't.

Because before Jolyne hit the ground, something slammed into her.

Not a final blow.

Not death.

A body.

A presence.

A shield.

Jolyne's eyes flew open just in time to see emerald-green lightning crack through the battlefield.

To see a figure standing in front of her, arms outstretched, taking the full force of the attack meant for her.

To see Isabella.

Her Stand, Thunderstruck, was already moving, its energy rippling through the air like a storm barely held back.

But it was too late.

The attack had already landed.

On her.

Jolyne watched in mute horror as Isabella's body jerked violently from the impact, blood spraying against the concrete.

She staggered but didn't fall.

She stood, breathing hard, back still turned to Jolyne as if she hadn't just thrown herself in front of a killing blow.

Jolyne couldn't move.

Couldn't think.

She just stared.

And then—

Isabella's voice, soft and rough from pain, barely audible over the ringing in Jolyne's ears.

"...I wasn't going to let you die."

Jolyne's heart lurched.

The words shouldn't have meant anything.

They should have just been another stupid, reckless thing Isabella said.

But they weren't.

Because she had never heard Isabella sound like that before.

Never heard her sound shaken.

Never seen her bleed for someone else like it didn't matter.

And suddenly, Jolyne couldn't breathe.

Isabella finally turned to look at her, green eyes hazy but still sharp.

Still steady.

"You good, Cujoh?" she muttered, like she hadn't just nearly died.

Jolyne's fists clenched.

"You—" Her voice cracked. "You fucking idiot."

Isabella blinked.

Then, to Jolyne's absolute fury, she smirked.

"That's the thanks I get?"

Jolyne's blood boiled.

"Are you—are you actually—" She let out a sound that was half a growl, half a breathless laugh. "You almost got yourself killed, and you're still being a smug asshole?"

Isabella chuckled weakly. "Guess that means I'm not dead yet."

Jolyne wanted to punch her.

She also wanted to shake her.

She also wanted to drag her close and—

No.

Not now.

Not here.

Instead, she settled for grabbing Isabella's collar and yanking her forward, hard enough to make their foreheads nearly collide.

"Don't ever do that again," she snarled.

For once, Isabella didn't have a comeback.

She just stared at Jolyne, their breaths heavy, their faces inches apart.

And then, after a beat, her voice softened.

"...Not a promise I can keep, babe."

Jolyne's grip tightened.

Because she knew.

She knew Isabella meant it.

Knew that if it came down to it again, she would do it without hesitation.

And Jolyne?

Jolyne hated that she didn't know how to deal with that.

Behind them, the fight wasn't over.

Jolyne heard the movement, the shifting of the battlefield.

She forced herself to pull away, shoving Isabella back toward safety.

"We finish this later," she muttered.

Isabella smirked. "Looking forward to it."

Jolyne rolled her eyes and turned back to the enemy.

And this time?

This time, she was furious.

This time, she wasn't just fighting for herself.

She was fighting for Isabella.

For the reckless, infuriating, stupid woman who had thrown herself in front of a killing blow.

For the idiot who had said, "I wasn't going to let you die."

Because if Isabella thought she could protect Jolyne—

Then she'd just have to return the favor.

Jolyne won.

Barely.

By the time the dust settled, she was aching, exhausted, and bleeding in more places than she could count.

But she was alive.

They both were.

Isabella was leaning against a ruined wall, her jacket torn, blood drying against her temple.

Jolyne walked straight up to her.

Neither of them spoke at first.

Then, finally—

Jolyne exhaled sharply.

"You scared the shit out of me."

Isabella blinked.

Then, after a beat—"Did I?"

Jolyne glared.

"Yes, asshole."

Isabella grinned, but it was softer this time. "Good to know."

Jolyne huffed.

Then, quieter—

"...Don't do it again."

Isabella's smirk faltered for half a second.

Then, just as quickly—it was back.

But Jolyne had seen it.

And now, she knew.

Knew that Isabella cared.

Knew that whatever they were, whatever this was, it wasn't just nothing.

And that?

That was almost scarier than the fight itself.

Later that night, in the quiet of their cells, Jolyne lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

Isabella's words echoed in her head.

"I wasn't going to let you die."

Jolyne exhaled, closing her eyes.

Yeah.

She wasn't going to forget that anytime soon.

That night, Jolyne lay in her bunk, staring up at the cracked ceiling, listening to the rhythmic hum of the prison at night.

She should have been sleeping.

She wanted to be sleeping.

But instead, she was thinking.

About Isabella.

And that?

That was a problem.

Jolyne groaned silently, dragging a hand down her face.

Not this. Not now.

She'd started calling it The Urge.

The restless, nagging feeling that crept up when she least expected it.

Back home, it had been simple.

She had her own space. Her own room. A door she could lock.

But here?

There was no escaping anything.

Not the guards. Not the thin walls. Not the knowledge that privacy was a joke in this place.

And not the stupid, irritating, reckless woman who had thrown herself in front of an attack for her.

Jolyne exhaled sharply, rolling onto her side.

It wasn't even just the fight earlier.

It was everything.

The way Isabella got under her skin.

The way she smirked when she knew she had the upper hand.

The way she had said—I wasn't going to let you die—like it was nothing.

Like Jolyne was something worth protecting.

Her stomach twisted.

No.

She was not going there.

Not now.

Not ever.

She clenched her fists against the thin prison sheets, breathing slowly, evenly, forcing her mind onto anything else.

Because if she let herself think about it too much?

She wouldn't be able to stop.

And that?

That was dangerous.