But it doesn’t fucking matter—she’s in my head, same as the bullets, same as the blast.
“You’ll never catch me, Dax. You never fucking do.”
My throat works. No sound comes out. Just a rasp, broken and useless.
I don’t know if it’s hours later, or minutes, but the weight shifts.
Footsteps.
Closer.
A hand touches mine.
Warm. Small. Real.
And fuck—I know it.
I’d know it blind.
“Dax.”
Her whisper cracks through the haze, through the pain, through every wall I ever built.
Butterfly.
I force my lids open, everything blurry, edges swimming. The light blinds. My head screams. My chest feels sewn together with barbed wire.
But I see her.
Cassandra.
Eyes red, cheeks raw, her hair pulled back like she fought with it for hours. She looks destroyed. Beautiful. Mine. Her fingers tremble where they hold me, but she doesn’t let go.
“You scared the shit out of me,” she whispers, voice shaking, breath hitching like she’s holding herself together by a thread.
I want to tell her I’m sorry.
That I’m fine.
That I’ll never leave her again.
But all that comes out is a broken rasp, cracked and useless?—
“…Butterfly.”
Her eyes flood, tears spilling fast, faster, like she’s been holding them back all night and for the first time since the blast, I feel something other than pain.
I feel hers.
Bleeding all over me.
Her tears burn worse than shrapnel.
“Don’t—” Her voice breaks, sharp as broken glass. She squeezes my hand harder, like she can anchor me with just that grip. “Don’t you ever do that to me again. You hear me?”
I try to answer. My lips move. The sound that comes out isn’t a word. Just a ragged breath, rougher than gravel.
Her other hand presses to my chest, right over the bandages. Careful but firm. Like she’s reminding me my heart’s still in there. Like she’s daring it to stop.
