My throat locks. Heat claws up my spine.
“Cass—”
“No.” She leans closer, her hair brushing my cheek, her lips almost at my ear. “You don’t get to drown in shame, not here. Not with me. You hear me? You want to break? You break for me. You want to come? You come for me. You want to live?”
Her hand tightens over my chest, right above my heart. “Then you fucking live for me.”
Something snaps inside me, but not the same as before. Not delirium. Not shame. Something sharper. Cleaner. The need to keep breathing just to feel that voice again.
I drag a ragged breath in, my lips trembling around one word that tears out of me like confession.
“Butterfly.”
Her sob shakes against my neck. Her mouth presses there, wet, searing.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers. “Every broken piece. I’ve got you.”
The heat drains out of me all at once.
Like the blast itself ripped me open again and left me hollow.
My body shakes, violent, weak, every nerve buzzing in aftershocks I can’t control. My cock’s still twitching, wet heat clinging to me, but the shame is worse than the pain.
Christ.
I came.
Right here. On the table. In front of her.
I turn my face, try to bury it in the canvas, anywhere but her eyes. But her hand finds my jaw, firm, trembling, forcing me to look.
“Dax,” she whispers, voice raw, wrecked. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you hide from me now.”
The flap bursts open. Boots thunder. Voices flood the space.
“Kingston’s crashing?—”
“BP’s in the floor?—”
“Get a line in?—”
Hands are everywhere. Cold metal. Rubber gloves. The sting of alcohol wipes tearing at my skin. My veins scream as someone shoves a needle home. Oxygen mask pressed to my face, choking me with plastic.
I fight. Weak, pathetic thrashing, but I fight. I don’t want them. I don’t want any of them.
Her. I want her.
She bends over me, blocking out the lights, her hair falling forward like a shield. Her voice is the only sound that cuts through the chaos.
“Look at me,” she orders, fierce and breaking at once. “Just me. Forget them. I’ve got you.”
Her hand doesn’t leave my face, even when someone shouts to clear the lines, even when they shove pads against my chest. Her grip is iron, her tears hot.
And fuck me, I cling to that.
Because the shame burns.
The humiliation of losing myself like that, of showing her the ugliest, weakest parts of me. But her eyes—red, wet, unblinking—don’t flinch.
