Covered in his blood.
Hands trembling.
Heart cracked wide.
I wait and whisper the words I should have said long before tonight, the ones that might be the only light he can hear in the dark—“I love you, Dax. Come back to me.”
The OR hums on.
And I stay.
And I wait.
And I breathe for both of us.
Chapter Twenty Five
Dax
Dark.
Not the kind that means sleep. Not the kind that gives rest. The kind that presses in, heavy, choking.
Beep.
Hiss.
Beep.
Hiss.
Machines breathing for me.
Machines telling the room I’m still here.
Am I?
My body feels far away.
Too heavy.
Like I’ve been buried under sand again, ribs split open, lungs full of grit.
I try to move—can’t.
Try to speak—nothing.
The world drags me back in pieces.
Fluorescent light burning through closed lids.
The sour bite of antiseptic clogging my nose.
Pain like fire stitched into my side, spreading with every shallow breath and her voice.
Not here.
Not real.
