Then Cassian moves.
One second he’s in the back with us, the next he’s in the driver’s seat, hot-wiring the ambulance like he just stepped out of a heist movie.
“Are you serious?” I whisper-shriek, watching him work with a kind of ease that only comes from too much practice.
Nathaniel groans, fumbling for something to bolt the back doors shut. Talon is laughing. Actuallylaughing.
I stare, horrified, as the engine roars to life, sirens blaring. Cassian slams his foot on the gas, and the ambulance lurches forward like we’re on a rescue mission for Satan himself.
The medics? The crowd of concerned bystanders? Probably even a few squirrels in the trees?
They’re all screaming.
And the four of us?
We haven’t even scratched the surface of the shit that’s coming.
Coming home from a mission is never easy.
You step off the transport, boots hitting solid ground, but it still doesn’t feel real. The weight of your ruck, the stiffness in your joints, the dried sweat clinging to your skin—those feel real. The mission lingers in your bones, in the dull throb of exhaustion, in the way your hand hovers a moment too long near your sidearm, even though you’re stateside now. Even though there’s no threat.
The air feels different here. Lighter, maybe. But wrong. Too quiet. Too still. No radio chatter, no hum of distant drones, no sand in your eyes. Just the buzz of a vending machine in the corner and a civilian clerk asking for paperwork like you weren’t just in another world entirely. Like you’re supposed to just... be here now. Be normal.
But normal feels foreign.
You tell yourself you should be relieved. Grateful, even. You made it back. Most of your team did too.
But it’s hard to feel grateful when even home feels... alien.
“Oh my god, Cass!” Sabine exclaims, throwing her arms around me and nearly knocking me off balance. Her perfume hits me before she does. Sweet, floral, expensive. Something soft. Feminine.
And all I can think about is how far that is from what I’ve lived in—dirt, gunpowder, metal, blood. The sour sting of sweat soaked into worn-out fabric. The way the air smells after a gun’s been fired. After someone’s died.
I feel like an asshole for even thinking it. For comparing the two. For imagining her here, spritzing perfume in a clean, intact bathroom, while I was out there clawing through nightmares. How good she had it.
But that’s not fair.
I left.
I chose this. Walked away from warmth, from comfort, from family, thinking I could carry the weight alone. Thinking it was the only way to fix things.
So it’s not her fault.
If anything, I should be grateful. Grateful she’s safe. That she has a steady job now. That she can afford little luxuries like this. That the world didn’t fall apart just because I wasn’t in it.
Be happy for her. For fuck’s sake, be happy, Cassian.
But my body doesn’t know what to do with that. My hands twitch uselessly at my sides, stiff from too many nights gripping a weapon, half-asleep but always alert. They don’t know whether to pull her close… or push her away.
She doesn’t notice the hesitation, thank god.
“You’re back!” she breathes, hugging me tighter before stepping back. Her hands grip my arms like she’s trying to make sure I’m really here. “Jesus, you look like hell.”
I huff a laugh. It's dry and hollow. “Thanks, Sabbie. Real warm welcome.”
She grins, but her eyes flick over me like she’s scanning for damage. It’s what she does and what she’s always done. She wants to ask. I can tell. Wants to know where I’ve been, what I’ve done, if I’m okay. But she also knows better.
Instead, she steps back and forces a lightness into her voice. “Come on. Mom and the cousins are waiting. I told them not to make a big deal, but, well… you know how they are.”
