“It’s him.” His throat scrapes the words out like broken glass. “It’s always been him. Even before he left, even before you walked into this desert. He’s been bleeding for years, Cass. And you’re the only tourniquet that’s ever worked.”
The sob that tears through me almost bends me in half.
“No—”
“Yes.” His grip squeezes again, weak but fierce, dragging me back down to him. His breath smells like metal, like antiseptic, like war. “He doesn’t hate you. He hates himself for wanting you. For touching something he thinks he doesn’t deserve.” His lips twitch, a shadow of a smile. “But fuck—he never stopped. You should see him when he says your name in his sleep.”
“Mason—” My body shakes so violently I almost drop my hands.
“I thought…” He coughs, a wet sound that makes my stomach twist. “I thought maybe he’d break and finally tell you. But he won’t. Not sober. Not unless you force it out of him. He’ll drown first. He always drowns first.”
I press my forehead to the edge of his cot, my hand still caught in his. “Why are you telling me this?”
His voice is so faint I almost miss it.
“Because he’ll never forgive himself if you walk away believing he doesn’t love you.” His eyes blink, heavy, fighting to stay open. “And because if I don’t make it out of this, someone has to tell you the truth before it’s too late.”
The machines beep steady behind me. My tears hit his wrist like rain.
“Mason—don’t you dare say that. Don’t you fucking dare.”
His lips part, another rasp slipping free, fragile and final.
“Then don’t let him go again. Don’t let him bury himself alive when you’re the only one who knows how to dig him out.”
And just like that—his eyes slide shut but his hand doesn’t let go.
The room tilts around me when his eyes slide shut.
“Mason—” I whisper, shaking his arm, panicked.
But the monitor doesn’t change. Still steady. Still alive.
Alive.
Barely.
I sit there for hours. Maybe more. Time isn’t real anymore. Just the hiss of oxygen. Just the beep of machines. Just the heat pressing down and the weight of his words lodged in my chest like shrapnel.
He’ll drown first.
He doesn’t hate you.
He never stopped.
I repeat them over and over, like if I stop, Mason’s hand will slip out of mine. Like if I stop, the truth will vanish too, swallowed up by the same silence Dax left me in.
The tent gets darker. Then brighter. Then darker again. I don’t move. My ass goes numb on the stool. My neck aches from bowing over him, from listening for every rasp of his breath.
I don’t even notice when the other medics filter through. They glance at me, some with pity, some with curiosity, but none of them tell me to leave. Maybe because they know. Maybe because they’ve seen this kind of waiting before.
When I finally stand to stretch my legs, it’s only to pace two steps, then sink right back down and clutch Mason’s hand tighter.
“Don’t you fucking die,” I whisper, voice splintered. “Don’t you leave me with his ghosts.”
The words echo too loud, bouncing back at me. His ghosts. His ghosts.
I close my eyes and I see Dax again.
