Say yes.
Shrug and throw a joke back at him like I’m still whole, like I’m not two seconds away from collapsing in a pile of too-latefeelings and syrup-soaked memories that still sting behind my eyes.
Instead, I murmur, “I’m fine.”
His gaze lingers. He doesn’t believe me. But he doesn’t push. Just slides a protein bar into my hand and mutters, “Eat. Cry later.”
I blink down at it.
It’s stupid. Small. Pathetic but I could fucking sob at the way kindness suddenly feels like the sharpest weapon in the room.
Outside, the artillery checkpoint fires a warning shot into the distance. The ground shakes. Dust falls from the ceiling. A nurse winces as she tapes down an IV. The lights flicker again.
And still?—
Outside, I can feel him.
Dax.
His presence is heavier than sandbags, pressing against the air like thunder before it breaks.
He’s not watching me.
But I know he knows.
Knows I’m here.
Knows Torres is here.
Knows someone else made me laugh.
I wonder if it kills him.
I wonder if it doesn’t.
And that thought?
Hurts worse than anything else.
He sees it.
The flicker in my throat when I swallow.
The way I keep glancing toward the exit like I’m hoping he’ll come back in.
Or dreading it.
I don’t even know anymore.
Torres leans down, voice low, teasing.
“Who is he?”
I blink.
My jaw clenches.
He doesn’t push because the silence that answers him is louder than a scream and yet—he doesn’t look smug. Doesn’t look like he’s already adding it up in his head. He just tosses a used gauze strip into the bin and says?—
