I feel it like shrapnel in my spine.
Fuck, Butterfly.
Why did you have to be here.
Of all the fucking places in the world.
You had to be here.
The tent lights flicker overhead like they’re struggling to stay alive. Med equipment hums. The air conditioner coughs out one useless blast of cool air before giving up.
I sit beside Mason’s bed, arms on my knees, head down. My boots are still crusted with his blood. My shirt’s stiff with it. It’s dried into my skin like war paint.
His chest rises. Falls. Slow. Mechanical.
Like the machines are breathing for him because he can’t anymore.
“You always did take the front seat, didn’t you, asshole,” I mutter, my voice so low it barely reaches my own ears. “Now look at you. Bedridden and still giving me shit.”
The beeping of the monitor is steady. It pisses me off.
I’d rather it scream. I’d rather it stop. I’d rather feel something other than this quiet suffocating helplessness.
Outside, a helicopter passes low over the tents, rotors slicing the air like a warning. Dust shakes loose from the rafters. Somewhere, someone curses at a radio.
I glance at her.
Still pretending.
Her hands are moving but her eyes?
Locked on me.
On us.
Fucking hell.
I shift in the chair and scrub my face with my palms. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
Silence.
She freezes. Then moves again.
Like I didn’t just land a punch to her ribs.
“Cass,” I growl.
Nothing. Just the clatter of metal as she opens a drawer and slams it shut.
“I said?—”
“I heard you,” she snaps, finally turning. Her eyes are glassy, but she’s not crying. Not yet. “I’m his medic. This is my somewhere.”
That stings more than it should. She won’t look at me now. Too busy checking the IV bag. Like it’s more important than the man whose blood still stains my chest.
More important than me.
“I’ll take over his watch,” I say, my voice colder than I feel. “You’re dismissed.”
