Sand fills her mouth.
And then it’s Torres’ voice, sharp, guttural: “Stay with me, Doc!” His hand crushing my vest, his face smeared with blood.
I blink—and it’s Cassandra again. Her hands on me, nails biting my skin, whispering, “Stay with me, please, just stay with me.”
I don’t know which is real.
I don’t care.
I grab at the air, at her ghost, at the straps that pin me to the bed. My body thrashes. My ribs scream. My lungs seize.
And I feel it—the chapel wall against her back. Her cunt squeezing me so tight I couldn’t breathe. Her voice breaking on mine: “I’ll never breathe without you.”
The machines howl. My body jerks, convulses.
And still?—
still—
I whisper her name.
“Butterfly.”
Like I can drag her through the smoke.
Like I can tether myself to her hands.
Like if I say it enough, the desert won’t swallow me whole.
“Butterfly.”
Blood fills my mouth.
Tears I don’t remember fall hot on my face and the darkness curls closer, whispering I won’t wake but I fight.
Christ, I fight because I see her—barefoot in the kitchen, syrup shining on her skin. In scrubs, covered in blood, hands steady when mine shake. In the chapel, begging me not to let her fall alone.
Everywhere.
Always.
My ruin.
My resurrection.
My Butterfly.
And I swear—I’ll crawl out of the grave to keep saying her name.
The desert keeps breathing through me. Sand in my teeth. Blood in my lungs. I can’t tell if I’m choking on smoke or drowning in her name.
Butterfly.
It rips out of me again, hoarse, cracked. My chest seizes with it, the monitors spiking, alarms shrieking. Hands clamp down on my shoulders. Voices bark orders I can’t translate. All I hear is her.
“Stay with me, Dax.”
Her voice, soft.
