“I’m gonna take a nap. Nobody wake me,” Dax growls.
We head back to the living room, and I collapse back onto the couch. Pulling out my phone, I try to distract myself with literally anything. Social media, news, stupid videos. Nothing holds my attention for more than thirty seconds.
Everything feels wrong.
And I know exactly why.
CHAPTER NINE
Dax
By mid-afternoon, I’m ready to put my fist through a wall.
I’ve been pacing the living room for the past hour, unable to sit still, unable to focus on anything. The radio is on, and every sound grates on my nerves. And there’s this constant, overwhelming need to check on her, make sure she’s okay, make sure?—
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Malik says without looking up from his phone.
“Shut up.”
“Just saying.”
I want to snap at him, but the effort of controlling my temper is already taking everything I have. Instead, I force myself to stop pacing and drop onto my set of cushions on the floor.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
I try to distract myself by checking my phone. There’s a text from my mom from this morning asking how we’re doing with the storm. I start to type a response three times and delete it each time because I can’t seem to form coherent sentences.
We’re fine. House is secure. Roads are flooded.
It takes me five minutes to write three basic sentences. I used to run tactical ops meetings. I’ve coordinated disaster response efforts across multiple states. Now I can’t string together a simple text message.
I toss my phone aside and scrub my hands over my face. The stubble on my jaw feels too sharp, too scratchy. When did I last shave? Feels like days ago, even though it was just yesterday. Time is becoming meaningless.
Cole is sprawled on his section of the couch across the room, scrolling through his phone with an intensity that suggests he’s not actually reading anything. Every few seconds, he shifts position, crossing his legs, uncrossing them, sitting up, lying back down. He’s usually the most relaxed person I know, the kind of guy who can fall asleep anywhere and wake up cheerful. Right now, he looks like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin.
“You good?” I ask him, even though I know the answer.
“Peachy,” he mutters without looking up. “Just that every single thing is pissing me off today.”
“Same.”
Jalen is on the other couch, supposedly reading a book on his tablet. But I’ve been watching him for the past ten minutes, and he hasn’t turned a single page. He just keeps staring at the screen, his bandaged hand clenched and unclenched repeatedly against his thigh.
That’s not like him either. Jalen’s the steady one, the one who can focus through anything. I’ve seen him review mission briefs in the middle of a crowded bar, tune out shouting matches during unit drills, and stay locked in on a task even when chaos erupts around him.
Now he can’t even read a book.
“How’s your hand?” I ask him.
He startles slightly, as if he had forgotten anyone else was in the room. “What? Oh. Fine. Doesn’t hurt.”
“You keep clenching it.”
“Do I?” He looks down at his hand like he’s surprised to find it attached to his body. “Huh.”
The radio crackles with another weather update. “—storm warning remains in effect through tomorrow morning. Wind speeds sustained at forty-five miles per hour with gusts up to sixty?—”
