Circulation.
Focus.
“Stay with me,” I whisper, voice breaking as I press harder, deeper. Blood pumps past the gauze—hot and steady and endless. Far too much. “Don’t you fucking do this, Dax. Don’t you dare.”
Someone shouts his vitals—pressure crashing, pulse thready. My stomach drops because I know exactly what that means. I know what shock looks like. Skin pale. Lips blue. Breath shallow.
I know the statistics.
The outcomes.
The odds but numbers don’t mean shit when it’s him.
“Intubate,” I snap. My hands don’t leave his chest. They press harder, as if I can shove the blood back inside by sheer force of will.
The tube slides between his teeth. His gag reflex barely stirs—weak, almost absent.
That’s bad.
That’s so fucking bad.
“Cass—” one of the medics starts, cautious, careful.
“Shut up.” My voice fractures into something sharp and desperate, tears spilling down my cheeks and streaking through the dust. “Don’t you dare tell me he’s gone. Don’t you fucking dare.”
I shove more gauze into the wound, pressing with every ounce of strength. My shoulders burn. My arms scream. My breath comes ragged.
If I stop—he’s gone.
The monitor screeches. Numbers nosedive. My stomach rips open with it.
“Epi!”
I grab the syringe before anyone else moves. Jam it into his thigh. Push.
“Come on, Dax. Come on.”
His chest jerks. Once. Twice. The monitor flickers.
My tears drip onto his throat, mixing with blood and dust. My voice slips out in a whisper I barely recognise.
“He was drunk,” I breathe, cracked and broken. “He didn’t mean anything he said. He doesn’t love me. He can’t. He left. He?—”
But the medic next to me stares, startled. Not at my words—At his fingers.
They twitch.
Not gone.
I slam fresh gauze into the wound, my fingers slipping, my breath torn into pieces. “Don’t you quit on me. Not again. Not like this. Not when you?—”
His chest rises. Barely.
The faintest whisper of breath.
A rhythm reappears.
Weak.
