And maybe she has.
“Dax,” she breathes, and it’s not anger, not accusation. It’s relief so heavy it makes my chest ache worse than the shrapnel.
I try to lift my hand. It takes everything. Muscles scream, tendons pull, but I manage to curl my fingers into hers where they’re still clutched at my chest.
She doesn’t let go.
Not this time and for the first time since the blast, I believe maybe—just maybe—I’m still here.
Alive.
Because she didn’t stop holding on.
My throat’s a desert.
Dry, cracked, every word dragging blood up with it.
I want to talk.
Need to but the second I open my mouth, all that comes out is a sound. A rasp. Ugly. Broken.
Cass’s eyes widen, and she’s already shifting, already reaching for the plastic cup on the stand, already sliding a straw between my lips like she’s been waiting for this.
“Slow,” she whispers. “Just a sip. Don’t choke.”
The water tastes like metal. Warm plastic. But it slides down anyway, cooling the raw edges of my throat, loosening something enough that I can force out a word.
“Cass—”
She flinches like I just cut her open.
Her fingers tighten on mine. “I’m here.”
My chest stutters. I swallow again, grit grinding down my throat, and push harder. “Didn’t—” My voice breaks. I squeeze my eyes shut, force the air in, force it out, fight past the way my ribs feel like they’re being sawed from the inside. “Didn’t mean?—”
Her tears spill fresh. She shakes her head, hair falling loose around her face. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. You don’t get to apologise for almost dying.”
“I left you,” I rasp. The words scrape like shrapnel. “Didn’t—say goodbye?—”
Her hand covers my mouth so fast it shocks me. Gentle, trembling, but firm enough to stop me. Her tears drip onto my skin, hot and desperate.
“Shut up, Dax.” Her voice cracks. “Shut the fuck up. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”
Alive.
The machines hum their rhythm.
Beep.
Hiss.
Beep.
And I realise—I don’t have the breath to fight her. Not now. Not when every word feels like I’m dragging myself back through that crater.
So I let her win.
For once, I let her.
