His shoulder dips in the smallest shift, almost amused, but not quite letting itself land.
“Don’t romanticize it,” he says without looking back.
“Oh, please. I’m not romanticizing anything.” My mouth tips into something halfway between a smirk and surrender. “I’m just… surprised my well-being suddenly ranks.”
Silence stretches. Long enough I’m sure he’ll leave without answering.
But his hand stays on the door.
“Surprised,” he echoes quietly, like he’s testing the word on his own tongue. “Not as much as I am.”
He opens the door, and cold air from the hallway creeps in.
“We meet downstairs in an hour,” he says. “If you can walk without collapsing.”
I consider telling him to shove his concern somewhere creative, but then he glances back. Just a flicker. Barely a look. One of those micro-expressions that say a thousand words.
Checking.
Confirming.
Caring…
He didn’t say it to mock. He said it because he genuinely thinks I’ll faceplant somewhere between here and the stairs.
“Make that war crime you call coffee,” I mutter, throat raw. “Or hell, just strap me to an espresso drip. I’m not picky.”
He doesn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, twitching upward. Then he’s gone. Boots down the hall, posture locked. Distance reinstalled. Feelings zip-tied.
The door clicks shut.
I sag back, and the mattress swallows me like a carnivorous swamp. Everything aches. My bones feel like someone filled them with wet concrete. My lungs feel flayed, every breath dragging knives over what’s left of me.
But somewhere under all that scorched wreckage, something warm and bright is blooming, stubborn as a weed between tombstones. Is this… happiness?
Too bad I don’t get to enjoy it.
I brace an arm, grit my teeth, and haul myself upright as fast as I can. Then, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and wait until the world stops wobbling in my head.
An hour isn’t long.
But it’s long enough to remember exactly why I can’t afford to fall apart right now.
I wasn’t dragged back from the brink so somebody could tuck me in and fluff the pillows.
I was dragged back to finish this.
Death said more wraiths are coming.
He didn’t say when.
Could be minutes. Could be days. But either way, I have an agenda to fulfill in the meantime.
Mark.
Jessica.
The living corpse of a marriage that tried to gut me slow.
