Fragile.
But there.
And I break—sobbing and shouting and still working, because if I stop, he dies. If I let go, he’s gone.
Not him.
Not my Dax.
Not the bastard who ruins me.
Not the bastard I still love so fucking much.
The blood won’t stop.
It pulses against my palm, warm and slick and relentless, soaking through the dressing, through my gloves, through the trembling bones in my wrists. I shove in more gauze, pressing harder, my arms shaking with the force.
“Chest tube!” I scream. “He’s drowning?—”
The medic fumbles for the kit. I don’t wait. I grab the scalpel, tear through fatigues, through skin. Blood bubbles instantly.
“Tube,” I bark.
It slaps into my hand. I plunge it into the incision. A rush of hissing air escapes—pressure releasing. Foam and blood spill down his side, hot and wet. The monitor flickers upward, just a fraction.
“Got it—got it?—”
“Suction,” I snap. “Now.”
The machine whirs to life. Blood fills the canister. My pulse rams against my throat. My hands don’t leave him.
“Pulse ox is shit!” someone shouts.
“Then keep bagging him!” I snarl. “He’s not done.”
My hands tremble violently as I clamp again. The suction gurgles beside me. His breath rattles faintly. My tears blur my vision until all I see is red and white and the shadow of his face breaking apart beneath my hands.
“IV’s blown!”
“Then get another! IO if you have to!”
“Cass—”
“Do it!” I scream so loud my voice tears. “Just do it!”
The medic drills into his tibia, bone cracking. Fluids push. Dax jerks weakly.
“Clamp!”
I dive deep into the wound. Find the pulsing vessel. Squeeze. Hard.
He gasps.
Barely.
But enough.
“That’s it, Dax,” I cry, my words shattering. “Stay with me. Come on, you stubborn bastard.”
