“You don’t outrank me here.”
“You don’t belong here at all.”
The words are poison. I spit them like venom and the second they land, I hate myself for it.
She freezes. The IV bag sways in her hand and when she turns to face me, it’s like looking into a storm I don’t know how to survive.
“I do belong here,” she says softly. “You just didn’t expect to see me again.”
“I didn’t want to see you again.” That lie hurts more than any wound I’ve ever stitched.
Her throat bobs. “Well… tough shit.”
The tent seems to shrink around us, the air crackling with heat that has nothing to do with the broken AC. Medics murmur on the far side, trying to pretend they’re not listening.
I stand. Move toward the door. I need air. Space. Distance but the sandstorm outside is snarling again, wind brushing the tent walls like fingernails.
Before I reach the flap, I hear her whisper something under her breath.
“What?” I snap, turning.
She’s standing over Mason, her hand hovering just above his.
“You always run when it gets hard,” she says.
Quiet. Controlled. Brutal and that’s the thing with her. She doesn’t need to shout to cut me wide open.
“I don’t run,” I say, jaw tight.
She turns to me. “Then stay.”
“Then stay,” she says.
The words echo like a shot.
As if she doesn’t know what she’s asking for. As if I didn’t already die the first time I left her standing in that kitchen with syrup on her skin and a war in her eyes.
I stare at her.
At her scrubs.
At the smudged mascara beneath her eyes.
At the stupid strand of hair falling out of her bun like it doesn’t care we’re in a fucking war zone.
“Stay?” I laugh—dry, mean. “Why? So you can play nurse and pretend you’re not in over your head?”
She flinches but I’m not done.
“Or is this just some Florence Nightingale fantasy for you, Cass? Gonna bandage broken men and collect love letters like souvenirs?”
Her lips part.
Pain flashes in her face—but she doesn’t cry.
She never cries when I expect her to.
Only when I’m not looking.
