An hour later, after I’ve cleaned the kitchen, I find myself standing outside her room.
I could try to manage this myself—but the truth is, I still can’t change the damn bandage on my own. My shoulder won’t let me. The T-shirt I have on isyesterday’s, and I need her help to change. Even if she does it like it’s a chore she can’t wait to be done with.
Sometimes I think about crashing with Vicky and Ishika for a bit. Give her space. But I can’t do that to them. Ishika’s pregnant. I’m a walking target. That would be cruel—andstupid.
Three short knocks. I hear her move inside.
When she opens the door, I brace for it—and there it is. That cold, unreadable stare. I tell myself to get used to it, but it still fucking stings.
“I... can you help with the—”
She cuts me off with a swift nod, steps aside, and silently gestures for me to follow. Same routine. Same silence. But tonight, something feels tighter. More frayed.
She’s reached her limit. I can feel it.
I sit on my bed, and she grabs the medical kit from the shelf like muscle memory. Her hands go to the hem of my shirt. I lift my arms as much as I can, and she helps me out of it like it’s a transaction.
And then she sees the tattoo again.
That tiny wince.God.
She doesn’t say a word—just gets to work. The way her fingers move is precise, methodical. I was alarmed initially. But I know better now.
She’s probably done this a hundred times. Not just for me. Forherself. Maybe her teammates. People who bled beside her.
I swallow hard, my chest tightening with a sick twist of guilt and dread.
What did she face in Afghanistan? What the hell happened to her out there?
Her words haunt me—broken, dying, incapable—and now I can’t breathe right. That old panic I thought had finally loosened its grip slams back into me like a fucking freight train.
“Stop moving,” she mutters without looking up. “You’re breathing too hard.”
Shit. I hadn’t even realized. I try to slow it down—deeper, slower breaths, in through the nose. I nod, but she’s not watching.
She finishes up, tape firm against my skin, and turns to put everything away. I reach for a fresh T-shirt from the closet, and the silence stretches between us like a tightrope.
I can’t stop replaying her words from earlier.
‘We can talk later. If—if... if...’
That uncharacteristic terror filling her words. What the hell was theif?
“Earlier... you said we could talk later. If...” I say quietly. Like if I speak too loud, she’ll vanish. “What did you want to say then?”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Just closes the medical kit, takes the T-shirt from my hand, and nods at the bed.
As she helps me pull it over my head, the cotton blocks my vision for a few seconds—and that’s when I hear it.
A whisper. Almost as if it’s easier because she doesn’t have to face me as she speaks.
“We can talk later... if I can prepare myself in advance.”
My heart lurches. I blink into the faint white light filtering through the shirt before it settles over me. When it lowers, she’s still there. Watching me with eyes that look like they might have already built the wall back up.
“Are you willing to share what happened after you left?” I ask, softer this time.
Her eyes flutter closed for a moment. And when they reopen, there’s a depth of pain in them that makes my blood run cold. Pain I don’t understand. But Iwantto.
