He's walking, which my brain registers as good even as the rest of me focuses on the field dressing wrapped around his leftbicep, the blood seeping through the fabric, the way he favors his right side, the cuts on his face. Willa is already moving toward him, medical bag in hand, but his eyes find mine across the room and everything else fades.
He's alive. Bleeding, hurt, but alive.
The relief hits so hard my knees go weak. I release Lucas's hand and move toward Stryker without conscious thought, crossing the space between us in heartbeats. Up close, I can see the full extent of the damage—wounds on his arm, burns on his shoulder, exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
"You're hurt," I say, like an idiot, stating the obvious.
"Operational," he echoes Tommy's assessment, and the word sounds different in his voice. Rougher. More painful.
Willa is all business. "Medical bay. Now. Let's see how much of that blood is actually yours."
Stryker doesn't argue, which tells me more about his condition than any sitrep could. He lets Willa guide him down the corridor toward the medical bay, and I follow without asking permission.
Lucas tugs at my sleeve. "Mom?"
"Stay with Khalid, baby. I'll be back soon."
Khalid's already moving to collect Lucas, understanding written across his young-old face. He's been where Lucas is—waiting to see if someone he cares about will survive their injuries. The knowledge passes between us in a glance, and I'm grateful for him in ways I can't articulate.
The medical bay is clean and clinical, exactly what you'd expect from a facility designed by someone like Kane. Willa directs Colton to sit on the exam table and starts cutting away his tactical gear with practiced efficiency. Each layer reveals more damage—shrapnel embedded in his arm, burns across his shoulder, bruising that's already blooming purple and black across his ribs.
"It looks worse than it is," Colton says, catching my expression.
"Says the non-medically trained operator," Willa mutters, pulling out irrigation supplies and local anesthetic.
I stand against the wall, trying to stay out of the way while watching every move Willa makes. Cleaning the wounds, extracting debris, stitching the deeper cuts. Colton doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound beyond controlled breathing that tells me exactly how much pain he's swallowing.
Watching him bleed. Knowing he'll do it again tomorrow if that's what keeping Lucas safe requires. Understanding that every time he walks out that door, he might not walk back through it.
I'm in love with him.
Still. Always was. Never stopped, even when I convinced myself I had, even during the eight years of silence, even when I hated him for leaving.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it settles into my bones like truth I've been avoiding.
Willa finishes the last stitch and steps back, surveying her work. "You're an idiot, you know that?"
"Noted," Colton says.
"Chasing hostiles with wounds in your arm. Kane should have pulled you off the field."
"Kane was busy keeping Mercer from collapsing."
Willa makes a disgusted sound but doesn't argue. She packs up her supplies, gives Colton a look that promises future lectures, and heads for the door. She pauses next to me on her way out.
"Make sure he actually rests," she says quietly. "He won't do it on his own."
Then we're alone.
Colton sits on the exam table, bare-chested except for the bandages, exhaustion and pain etched into his face. His eyes find mine across the small space, holding me with that intensity I've never been able to look away from.
"You're okay," I say, needing to hear it.
"I'm okay."
"You could have died out there."
"But I didn't."
