Chapter Text
Sage was always reminding her of something.
Don’t forget your jacket.
Don’t forget to eat something that is not instant noodles.
Don’t forget to stretch before training.
Don’t forget that speed is not the same as recklessness, Jett.
The first time Jett heard it, she had laughed, half amused and half offended, spinning one of her knives between her fingers as she leaned against the doorway of the infirmary.
“Wow,” she said. “You sound like my mom.”
Sage did not even look up from wrapping the bandage around Jett’s forearm. Her brows drew together in that familiar, delicate frown — not angry, not exactly, but serious enough that Jett felt twelve years old for about three seconds.
“Then perhaps your mother was right.”
Jett made a face. “That’s illegal. You’re not allowed to agree with her.”
“And you are not allowed to come back from every mission bleeding.”
“It was one cut.”
“It was four.”
“Tiny cuts.”
“One required stitches.”
Jett opened her mouth, then closed it.
Sage tied the bandage off with smooth, practiced hands. Her touch was gentle, but the final knot was firm, like her care itself: soft on the surface, impossible to argue with underneath.
“There,” Sage said. “Do not pick at it.”
“I don’t pick.”
“You pick.”
“I absolutely do not.”
Sage finally looked up. “Jett.”
The way she said her name was unfair. Calm. Knowing. Like she had already seen every possible version of Jett trying to lie her way out and had forgiven all of them in advance.
Jett clicked her tongue and looked away. “Fine. I won’t pick.”
“Good.”
“And I’ll eat something.”
“Something real.”
“Wow, so many rules.”
Sage’s expression softened, just barely. “Someone has to make sure you survive your own confidence.”
At the time, Jett rolled her eyes.
Later, she would learn to listen for it.
Sage’s reminders followed her everywhere.
They appeared in messages at the worst possible times.
Sage: Don’t forget your gloves. It will be cold tonight.
Jett: I literally control wind.
Sage: That does not make you immune to weather.
Jett: sounds fake
Sage: Gloves, Jett.
Jett: yes ma’am 🙄
They appeared on sticky notes, too. On the fridge. On her locker. Once, somehow, on the inside of her weapon case.
Don’t forget to clean your blades.
Jett had stared at that one for a full ten seconds before yelling down the hall, “How did you even get this in here?”
Sage had answered from the common room, perfectly serene, “You left it unlocked.”
“I did not!”
“You did.”
“Stop using my bad habits against me!”
“Then stop having so many.”
The others teased them about it sometimes. Phoenix called it “domestic warfare.” Raze once placed a sticky note on Jett’s back that said Don’t forget to breathe, and Sage had actually smiled before removing it.
But Sage’s own notes were different.
They were always written in neat, controlled handwriting, each word careful and exact. Never too much. Never dramatic.
Don’t forget your water.
Don’t forget to rest your ankle.
Don’t forget you promised to sleep before 2.
Don’t forget I am serious.
That last one had made Jett laugh so hard she took a picture of it.
She kept it.
Not that she told Sage.
Calls were worse.
If Jett was out late, her phone would ring.
If she ignored it, it would ring again.
If she ignored that, Sage would send one text.
I know you saw this.
Jett always called back after that.
“What?” she would say, pretending to be annoyed, wind whipping around her as she stood somewhere on a rooftop, or outside a convenience store, or in the middle of making a bad decision.
And Sage would say, “Where are you?”
“Out.”
“That is not a place.”
“It’s a concept.”
“It is midnight.”
“Actually, it’s 12:07.”
“Jett.”
There it was again. Her name, held carefully between warning and affection.
Jett would sigh loudly, just to make a point. “I’m fine.”
“I know you are fine. I am asking whether you will remain fine.”
“You always think I’m going to die if I’m unsupervised for five minutes.”
“No,” Sage said. “I think you will forget you are not indestructible.”
That one usually shut Jett up.
Because the truth was, she did forget.
Or maybe she didn’t forget. Maybe she just hated remembering.
It was easier to run fast enough that nothing could catch her. Easier to laugh before fear found a place to land. Easier to throw herself into danger and trust her instincts to pull her out.
And when they didn’t, Sage did.
That was the dangerous part.
Jett got used to it.
She got used to crashing back into the infirmary with bruised ribs, split lips, torn sleeves, and a grin too bright to be convincing. She got used to Sage standing there with that little crease between her brows, already reaching for gauze before Jett finished saying, “Okay, before you get mad—”
“I am already mad.”
“You don’t even know what happened.”
“You are bleeding on my floor.”
“That could be anyone’s blood.”
“Jett.”
“Okay, yeah, it’s mine.”
Then came the lecture.
Not loud. Sage was almost never loud.
That made it worse.
She would speak quietly while cleaning the wound, every sentence precise enough to sting.
“You cannot keep entering alone before the team is in position.”
“I had the angle.”
“You had a guess.”
“A good guess.”
“You had luck.”
“Luck likes me.”
“Luck will not resurrect you.”
Sometimes, Jett would snap back.
Sometimes, when she was tired, embarrassed, and still shaky from how close the mission had gone, Sage’s concern pressed too hard against the place where Jett kept her pride.
“I get it,” Jett said once, pulling her arm away too fast. “I messed up. You don’t have to keep saying it.”
Sage’s hand paused in midair.
For a second, Jett saw something flicker across her face. Not hurt exactly. Sage was too disciplined for that.
But something quieter.
Jett regretted it immediately.
Sage only lowered her hand. “I am not saying it because I enjoy hearing myself speak.”
“I know.”
“I say it because I do not want to lose you.”
The room went still.
Jett stared at the floor.
Outside, someone laughed down the hall. Life went on like Sage had not just cracked open the air between them with one sentence.
Jett swallowed.
“Yeah,” she said, softer. “I know.”
Sage reached for her again. This time, Jett let her.
After that, she complained less.
Not completely. She was still herself.
She still groaned when Sage told her to wear thicker socks. Still rolled her eyes when Sage reminded her to charge her comms. Still sent back dramatic selfies from convenience stores holding cup noodles like contraband.
Sometimes, Sage didn’t text.
Sometimes, she just showed up.
Jett didn’t hear her approach. Of course she didn’t. One second she was alone, cross-legged on the floor, hair tied up messily, hoodie half-zipped, the room dim except for the harsh white glow of her phone—
—and the next, there was a soft knock.
Not loud. Not urgent.
Just… there.
Jett froze.
Her eyes dropped immediately to the steaming cup in her hands.
Instant ramen.
Of course.
“Don’t open,” she muttered to herself, as if the door might listen. “Pretend you’re not here.”
Another knock.
“Jett,” came Sage’s voice from the other side. Calm. Certain. “I know you are inside.”
Jett stared at the ceiling.
“Of course you do,” she whispered.
She scrambled up, nearly knocking over the cup, then panicked harder trying to decide whether to hide it or just accept her fate. The smell was already everywhere. There was no hiding it.
She kicked a stray packet under the couch, wiped her hands on her hoodie, then opened the door just enough to lean against it, blocking the view.
“Hey,” she said, too casually. “What’s up.”
Sage looked at her.
Not past her. Not around her.
Just at her.
Her brows drew together slightly. Not sharp. Just… aware.
“You did not answer your messages.”
“I was busy.”
“With what?”
“Important things.”
There was a pause.
Sage inhaled, faintly.
Jett knew that look.
“You are eating instant noodles again.”
It wasn’t a question.
Jett sighed and opened the door wider. “Wow. Betrayed by my own air.”
Sage stepped inside without waiting to be invited, like she had done it enough times that the line between permission and habit had quietly disappeared.
Her gaze swept the room once.
The cup.
The packets.
The mess Jett had definitely not cleaned.
A very small sigh.
Not dramatic. Not disappointed.
Just… expected.
Jett braced for it.
The lecture.
The Jett, this is not proper nutrition speech.
The your body is not something you can neglect tone.
Instead, Sage set the bag she had been carrying down on the counter.
“I brought groceries,” she said.
Jett blinked. “You—what?”
Sage was already moving, slipping off her outer layer, tying her hair back with efficient familiarity, as if she had done this here before. Maybe she had. Jett couldn’t remember anymore.
“You will eat something proper tonight.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It is a promise.”
Jett leaned against the counter, watching as Sage unpacked the bag.
Vegetables. Fresh ones. Meat. Things that required effort.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Jett said, quieter now.
Sage didn’t look up. “I know.”
“…Then why did you?”
A brief pause.
“Because you would not.”
That should have annoyed her.
A little, it did.
Jett clicked her tongue and crossed her arms. “I can cook, you know.”
“I am aware.”
“I used to cook all the time before I joined the Protocol.”
“I am also aware.”
“Then—”
“You are tired,” Sage said simply.
That stopped her.
Jett frowned. “I’m not—”
“You come back late. You skip meals. You eat whatever is fastest.” Sage’s voice stayed even, not accusing, just… stating. “You are tired.”
Jett looked away.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t noticed.
It was just easier not to care.
Or pretend not to.
“…Ramen is fast,” she muttered.
“Yes.”
“It tastes fine.”
“It tastes like salt.”
“It’s comforting.”
Sage’s hands paused for half a second.
Then continued.
“I know.”
Something in that answer landed differently.
Jett shifted her weight, suddenly unsure what to do with herself. “You’re acting like I’m incapable or something.”
“I am acting,” Sage said, reaching for a knife, “like you deserve more than this.”
The room went quiet again.
Jett watched her.
The way she moved was different from everyone else. No wasted motion. No rush. Every action deliberate, controlled. Like even something as simple as cooking deserved her full attention.
It felt… strange.
Having someone do this for her.
Not because she couldn’t.
But because she didn’t have to.
Jett exhaled slowly and slid down onto a stool, resting her chin in her hand.
“You’re spoiling me,” she said.
Sage didn’t look up. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“You do not seem unhappy about it.”
“I’m not,” Jett admitted.
A small, almost invisible curve touched Sage’s lips.
Jett watched her a little longer.
“…You really didn’t have to come all the way here just for this.”
“I was nearby.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It is.”
Jett huffed out a laugh.
“Unbelievable.”
Sage set the pan on the stove, the soft sound grounding in a way Jett hadn’t expected.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Just the quiet rhythm of cooking. The faint sizzle. The occasional movement.
It was… nice.
Too nice.
Jett broke first. “You’re going to make me dependent, you know.”
Sage’s hands stilled for a moment.
Then she said, “You already rely on me.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Jett opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“…I don’t know,” she said finally.
Sage turned slightly, just enough to look at her.
“Then you may take the time to figure it out,” she said.
Jett rolled her eyes, but there was no heat in it.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll add that to my list. Right after ‘stop being reckless’ and ‘eat real food.’”
“Good.”
“…You’re not going to lecture me today?”
“I already am.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It does.”
Jett smiled, just a little.
She let her head rest against her arm, watching Sage move in the soft kitchen light, steady and quiet and there.
Always there.
The wind had never been good at staying.
Jett had spent most of her life slipping through spaces before anyone could close their hand around her. Moving was safer. Leaving first was easier. If no place became home, then no place could throw her out.
But Sage made staying feel less like being trapped.
Sage was steady.
Annoyingly steady.
Like ice, Jett used to think. Clear, cold, unshakable.
But that was not quite right.
Ice only looked cold from the outside. Beneath it, Sage was full of warmth she refused to waste carelessly. She did not burn bright and reckless like Phoenix, did not explode into affection like Raze. She cared like winter sunlight through glass. Quiet. Controlled. More precious because it did not beg to be noticed.
And Jett noticed.
She noticed everything.
The extra blanket left on the couch after Jett fell asleep there once.
The faint glow of green light brushing over her skin before she even had the chance to complain.
“Hold still,” Sage would say, already reaching for her wrist.
“It’s literally nothing.”
“It will become something if you ignore it.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“And I will heal it.”
Always that calm certainty. No argument allowed.
Jett would groan, but she never pulled away.
Warmth would spread through her skin, soft and steady, easing the sting before it could even settle. It was excessive. Completely unnecessary. The kind of care reserved for something far more serious than a shallow cut or a bruise that would fade on its own.
Sage never hesitated.
Not for the small wounds. Not for the ridiculous ones.
Not even when Jett showed up with something as trivial as a paper cut, holding her finger out like it was a life-threatening injury just to see Sage’s reaction.
Sage would still take her hand.
Still frown, just slightly.
Still heal it.
“You are wasting your strength,” Jett had said once, watching the glow fade from Sage’s fingertips.
“I am using it,” Sage corrected.
“For this?” Jett lifted her hand. “This doesn’t even count.”
Sage’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary.
“It counts,” she said quietly.
Jett didn’t ask what that meant.
She didn’t need to.
It was there in the way Sage’s thumb brushed lightly against her knuckles before letting go. In the way she never once refused, no matter how small the injury, no matter how many times it happened in a day.
An unspoken indulgence.
The kind of care that didn’t announce itself, didn’t demand acknowledgment, didn’t make a show of sacrifice.
Just… there.
Consistent. Certain. Unquestioned.
Jett got used to that, too.
Too used to it.
The way Sage always stood on Jett’s injured side during briefings, like her body had memorized the need to shield her.
The way she would say, “Don’t forget,” as if the words themselves could protect Jett from the world.
Don’t forget your jacket.
Don’t forget to eat.
Don’t forget to come back in one piece.
Don’t forget I am here.
Of course, Sage never said that last one.
She didn’t have to.
Jett heard it anyway.
So she let herself lean.
Just a little at first. Then more.
She let herself send Sage pictures of stupid things she saw outside. Let herself complain when training sucked. Let herself show up at Sage’s door after nightmares she pretended were “bad sleep.” Let herself lie on the infirmary cot while Sage worked nearby, saying nothing, needing nothing except the sound of another person breathing in the room.
And Sage, somehow, always understood.
She never asked for more than Jett could give.
She only glanced over and said, “You can stay.”
So Jett stayed.
Again and again, she stayed.
Maybe that was why she failed to notice the first signs.
Or maybe she noticed and refused to understand them.
The way Sage’s fingers sometimes stiffened after using her abilities.
The faint green shimmer beneath the skin of her wrist, gone when Jett blinked.
The pause before she flexed her hand.
The way she began wearing gloves more often.
When Jett asked, Sage only said, “It is nothing.”
Jett hated that answer. Mostly because it sounded too much like her.
Still, she let it go.
Because Sage was Sage.
Sage healed everyone.
Sage fixed everything.
Sage was the person waiting after disaster, steady as stone, hands glowing with life.
Sage did not break.
That was what Jett believed.
That was what made it so easy to keep running headfirst into danger.
After all, no matter how badly she messed up, no matter how reckless she was, no matter how often Sage frowned and scolded and told her not to do it again—
Sage would be there.
Sage would always be there.