“I’m fine.”
“You’re gray. Your heartrate is elevated. And you’re leaning sixty percent of your weight on me.” She steps back, slipping her arm around my waist to support me. “Back to bed. Now.”
“Bossy.”
“I prefer ‘assertive command presence.’”
She helps me back down the hall. I lean on her more than I want to admit. The adrenaline of seeing her is fading, leaving the wreckage of my body behind.
We reach the room. She helps me sit, then lift my legs onto the mattress. She adjusts the pillows, checks the IV line, and scans the monitors.
“Talia.”
She stops fussing. “What?”
“Stay.”
She hesitates. “The chair?—”
“No. Here.” I pat the empty space beside me. It’s a narrow hospital bed, barely wide enough for one, but I don’t care.
“I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
She climbs in carefully, terrified of jostling me. She curls onto her side, fitting herself into the small space between my body and the rail. She rests her head on my good shoulder, her hand settling lightly over my heart.
“This okay?” she whispers.
“Perfect.”
The tension that has held my muscles rigid for three days finally unspools. The pain is still there, a dull roar, but it’s manageable. Because she’s here. Because I can feel her breathing.
“What happens now?” she asks into the dark.
“We heal,” I say. “We recover.”
“And Phoenix?”
“Still out there.” My hand finds her hair, stroking the dark strands. “We hurt it. We exposed it. And when we’re ready, we finish it.”
“Together?”
“Together.”
She relaxes against me. Her breathing evens out, slowing into the rhythm of sleep.
I watch the monitor. The steady green line traces the beat of my heart.
One. Two. Three.
It’s not just a pump anymore. It’s a clock, counting down the time I have with her.
And I’m going to make every second count.
I close my eyes. For the first time since Syria, I don’t see the dust. I don’t see the dead children.
I see golden eyes, and I sleep peacefully.
