Old Wounds
Pain blurred the edges of my vision as I stumbled into the dimly lit hideout, pressing a shaky hand to my side. Blood oozed between my fingers, warm and sticky, soaking into my torn clothes. I barely had the strength to lift my gun when I heard footsteps.
Then I saw her.
Ada Wong.
My breath caught, though whether it was from the pain or the sight of her, I couldn’t tell. She stood a few feet away, red dress catching the faint light, a gun resting easily in her grip.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
It had been years. Years since we’d last touched, since we’d last whispered things in the dark that we had both known were lies. Since we had walked away from each other, choosing different sides of a war neither of us would ever win.
She sighed, tilting her head. "Still reckless, I see."
I scoffed, even as the pain flared. "Still wearing that damn dress in a gunfight, I see."
Her lips quirked, but she didn’t take the bait. Instead, she stepped closer, and I stiffened, hand tightening around my weapon.
Ada clicked her tongue. "Oh, please. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it through the door."
She wasn’t wrong.
I let out a slow breath, my legs trembling. My body was seconds away from giving out, but I wouldn’t—couldn’t—let her see me weak.
Ada rolled her eyes. "Sit down before you collapse."
"Why do you care?" I shot back.
The words came out harsher than I intended, but she didn’t flinch. She just stared at me, eyes unreadable, like she was trying to decide if I was worth saving.
Then, without another word, she strode forward, catching me by the arm just as my knees buckled. I wanted to pull away—to prove that I didn’t need her—but my body betrayed me. I sank into her touch, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it felt like to have her close.
She guided me onto the worn-out couch, then knelt between my legs, gloved hands moving to peel away my bloodied jacket.
"This might sting," she murmured.
I let out a breathy chuckle. "Like you care."
Her hands hesitated for the briefest second before she resumed her work, pressing gauze against my wound with an ease that told me she had done this too many times before.
Silence settled between us, thick with the weight of everything we hadn’t said.
"You should have let me die," I muttered.
Ada scoffed. "And let you haunt me? No thanks."
I tried to laugh, but it came out as a grimace. "I thought we were past saving each other."
She paused, her fingers stilling against my skin. Her eyes flicked up, locking onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
"We were," she admitted softly.
I swallowed hard. "Then why are you doing this?"
Her lips parted slightly, but she hesitated, like she wasn’t sure of the answer herself. Instead of speaking, she reached up, her fingers brushing against my jaw in a way that sent shivers down my spine.
She was always like this. Never giving too much. Never letting me know exactly where I stood.
"You should get some rest," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. "Yeah."
She didn’t move. Neither did I.
For a moment, it felt like old times—before the lies, before the betrayals, before the war tore us apart.
But we both knew better.
So I closed my eyes, pretending for just one night that she was mine again.
And Ada let me.