Delilah looked dead.
Harper knew she wasn't—the machines said otherwise—but pale skin, matted hair and tubes breathing for her looked an awful lot like death.
She counted the machines monitoring Delilah's vitals.
Seven. Seven different readouts with numbers and graphs she didn't understand, all of them tracking whether her cousin would live or die.
Delilah lay on the other side of transparent panels, pale as death under the harsh medical lighting. Tubes ran into her arms, her chest rose and fell with mechanical precision that meant machines were breathing for her. The honey-blonde hair Harper had watched her style yesterday was matted with blood someone had tried to clean but hadn't quite managed.
Yesterday. Had it only been yesterday?
The transparent panels let Harper see everything. Watch everything. Which meant she couldn't look away, couldn't pretend this wasn't happening, couldn't escape the knowledge that Delilah might die and it was her fault.
She should have stopped her. Should have refused to get in the flyer car. Should have been more forceful, more responsible, more?—
Her throat closed up. She bit down hard on her lower lip and tasted copper.
Behind the panels, Kellat checked readouts and adjusted equipment, his scarred hands steady. The healer's voice was too low to hear through the transparent barrier, but she watched his mouth move as he spoke to the two junior healers assisting him.
Those scars. Marks of skill, Kirr had said. Each one representing knowledge gained, a trial passed.
Her stomach twisted. Delilah needed skill. Needed every bit of knowledge those scars represented. Needed?—
"You should eat something." Kirr's voice came from behind her, quiet but firm.
She didn't turn around. Couldn't tear her eyes away from the monitors tracking Delilah's heartbeat. "I'm fine."
"You need to keep your strength up." He moved closer and she felt the heat of him at her back, solid and warm.
"I'm not hungry."
"Harper—"
"I said I'm fine." Her voice came out sharper than intended. She counted Delilah's heartbeats on the monitor. Fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five.
Kirr was quiet for a long moment. Then his hand settled on her shoulder, warm through his jacket, gentle despite the strength she knew he possessed.
She wanted to shrug him off. Wanted to lean into the touch. Wanted to scream.
Instead, she just sat there, frozen, while her cousin maybe died and machines beeped their steady rhythm.
"She's in good hands," Kirr said quietly. "Kellat is the best."
The best. Right. Because the best was what you needed when your cousin had extensive internal injuries from a crash you should have prevented.
Movement caught her eye. A male Latharian in medical scrubs approached, younger than Kellat, his expression professional. One of the junior healers, maybe.
"Ms. Sawyer?" His Terran was heavily accented but clear. "I can take the jacket to have it cleaned for you, and I'll bring you a blanket—you must be cold."
Harper's hands fisted in the leather. She pulled the jacket tighter around her shoulders, tucking herself deeper into folds that smelled like safety and warmth and him.
"No." The word came out too fast. Too defensive. "I'm fine."
The healer's gaze flicked past Harper to where Kirr stood. Something passed between them—some unspoken communication Harper was too exhausted to decipher. Understanding crossed the younger male's features.
"Of course." He nodded. "I'll bring some water then."
He left before Harper could protest again.
