Safe.
Almost.
I force my legs faster, even as my vision swims. The sand shifts under my boots, the sky tilts, but I keep Torres upright, keep us both moving.
We reach the trucks just as the first stars claw through the horizon.
My grip loosens on the rifle only when I shove Torres into the back of the MRAP. He curses, teeth gritted, blood pooling under him, but he’s alive.
Alive.
I lean against the frame, head tipped back, lungs clawing, ribs screaming. My hands are slick with someone else’s blood. Maybe mine. Doesn’t matter.
What matters is that I’m still standing. Still breathing. Still fighting and I know exactly why.
Not for orders.
Not for country.
Not for survival.
For her.
Always her.
My Butterfly.
The ride back feels endless.
The MRAP rattles like it’s falling apart under us, steel screaming against steel, every bump in the dirt road sending shockwaves through my ribs. My helmet’s off, my head tipped back against the armour plating, but my eyes won’t close. Not here. Not now.
Torres is strapped in across from me, pale as chalk, jaw clenched tight. Blood’s soaked through his combat pants, but his grip hasn’t left his rifle. Stubborn bastard.
The medic inside works fast—tourniquet, gauze, pressure—but it’s his eyes that tell me the truth. He knows it’s bad. We all do but Torres doesn’t break. Doesn’t whimper. Just spits into the dust and mutters, “Still upright.”
I nod once because if he can stay upright, so can I.
Even when my vision blurs. Even when the ringing in my ears swells to a scream. Even when my body begs me to quit.
The convoy barrels through the gates. Base rises out of the smoke like some broken promise—barbed wire, sandbags, canvas tents, diesel fumes choking the air.
The brakes screech. Doors slam open.
Hands drag Torres first, his weight carried between two medics who move like they’ve done this too many times. His head lolls, but he’s alive. Still alive.
I push myself forward. Boots hit dirt. Legs almost fold.
No.
Not yet.
One step.
Another.
The med tent glows harsh under floodlights, canvas walls snapping in the desert wind. I stagger toward it, rifle slipping in my grip, my body ready to quit.
And then—She’s there.
