This isn’t about him.
Except it is Because it’s always been about him.
Dax Kingston.
The man who burned through me like a matchstick. The man who said goodbye without meaning it, and then never came back.
Not really.
Not the version of him I knew.
The man outside that tent is not the man who fed me strawberries and told me with his eyes that he wanted me forever. He’s someone else now and maybe I am too.
Maybe this place stripped more than our illusions. Maybe it scraped away the soft and left nothing but bone.
But God… it still hurts.
It hurts so fucking much to stand here, so close I can hear him breathing, and feel like I’m not even worth a goddamn glance.
The tent smells like antiseptic and rust. Like pain trying to clean itself up. I hold the gauze tighter than I need to. Press a little harder on the wound I’m dressing—partly to stop the bleeding, partly to keep my hands from shaking.
Don’t cry. Don’t crack. Don’t care.
The ventilator cycles on the far side of the room. The vents cough dust. The lights buzz. A tray drops. Someone curses. The entire medical bay trembles like it’s made of bones instead of canvas and poles.
“Jesus, you really don’t mess around,” a voice says from my left.
I glance up.
It’s Torres.
Another field medic. One of the newer guys. Navy. Tall, sun-browned, annoyingly confident in that way boys get when they haven’t seen what war really does yet.
He’s grinning. Not in a sleazy way. Not even in that I’m-gonna-get-your-number way. Just warm. Easy. Like he hasn’t noticed the wreckage inside me yet.
“You always press that hard, or is it just the ones who flirt with you first?”
My brow lifts. “He’s unconscious, Torres.”
“Exactly. My competition’s down. I had to shoot my shot.”
A laugh slips out.
I clamp it back with my teeth and shake my head. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
He shrugs, then hands me fresh gauze. “Yeah, but I’m the idiot with good banter. You need some of that today. You look like your soul’s been put through a blender.”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
Not when my soul has been put through a blender, and the blade looked a hell of a lot like Dax Kingston.
Torres leans his hip against the gurney beside me. “You okay?”
The question shouldn’t matter but it lands. Harder than it should because no one’s asked me that since I got here. Not really. Not like they meant it.
I could lie.
