The letter is soft from my sweat now, the ink smudged where my thumb wouldn’t stop rubbing over Lola’s name. My chest twists so hard I almost tear it in half, because it isn’t fair. None of it is.
She gets a wedding.
She gets a husband.
She gets a future that isn’t painted in blood.
And me?
I get this. A broken man half-buried under machines, lips cracked, skin too pale to belong to Dax Kingston, the bastard who once made me scream under the stars like the whole fucking world belonged to us.
“Do you hear me?” My voice breaks, the words falling out in a whisper meant for him, for me, for anyone who’ll fucking listen. I press the letter against his chest, careful not to snag on the wires. “She’s getting married, Dax. Lola’s walking down the aisle, and she wants you there. She wants us both there. And if you quit on me now…”
My throat locks. Tears sting. My body bends over his, my forehead pressing against the crook of his shoulder where his pulse should be stronger than it is. “If you quit on me now, you’re gonna miss everything.”
My hands shake. The paper crinkles under my fists. His skin is warm, too warm, damp with fever, and I can feel the tremor in him even through the sheets.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I choke, shaking my head against him. “Don’t you dare leave me to tell her why you weren’t there. I won’t. I can’t.”
The monitors beep steady, cruel in their rhythm. Alive, but fragile. Always fragile.
I stay like that. Bent. Pressed against him like my body could convince his to keep fighting. The letter mashed between us, her words smudging into his skin and for a second—just one—I swear I feel his chest rise deeper, like maybe he’s listening.
I freeze, breath caught in my throat. My fingers tighten around his wrist where the pulse trembles faint and stubborn.
“Dax?” My voice is nothing. Just a crack. Just a plea.
But he doesn’t move again. Doesn’t stir.
Still—I don’t let go.
Not of him.
Not of the letter.
Not of the hope that’s killing me more than the fear ever could.
So I stay.
The war can scream outside all it wants.
I stay.
My body finally gives out.
It isn’t dramatic. There’s no sudden fall, no cinematic collapse. It’s smaller than that. A trembling in my knees that won’t quit. A weight between my shoulders that bows me down inch by inch until the stool feels like stone and even breathing is a chore I can’t quite remember how to finish.
I try to sit straighter, to hold the chart again, to double-check his vitals. But my hands won’t listen. They shake too hard. The pen slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor, the sound sharp enough to snap through the haze.
I blink. Everything blurs. The canvas walls tilt. The monitors hum their same tired hymn, steady and endless, and Dax—God,Dax—is still lying there with tubes in his veins, his chest fighting for every shallow rise.
My chest caves.
I drop my forehead to the edge of his cot, press my face into the stiff canvas sheets, and let the sob tear loose. Not a pretty sound. Not quiet. A guttural, broken thing dragged straight out of my ribs.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper against him, though my voice is so wrecked I don’t know if it counts as words anymore. “I can’t fucking do this without you.”
His skin is hot under my cheek, fever burning even through the bandages. My hand crawls toward his, fingers fumbling, until I catch it in both of mine and drag it to my chest like a lifeline.
