Viper was holding himself together the way soldiers did after impact—by bracing internally, by locking everything down so nothing escaped. Including fear. Including aftermath. Including the knowledge that a single inch had nearly destroyed something he could now name.
Love.
For the first time in his life, he was fucking in love.
Titus swallowed and looked away, hands fisting to keep from shaking.
The door opened, breaking the moment. A doctor stepped in—mid-forties, calm eyes, clipboard tucked under one arm.
“This case came through Caldwell,” the doctor said, matter-of-fact. “Let’s take a look.”
Titus grimaced. Of course, the Secretary of Defense would know he’d been shot.
The doc glanced at the monitors, then at him.
“You were lucky,” he said.
Lucky.
Titus almost laughed.
“Surgery showed the bullet missed anything vital,” the doctor continued. “No organ damage. No major vessels. A few inches difference and the outcome could have been completely different.”
Titus nodded. He’d lived his whole life in inches. Inches between survival and erasure. Inches between a blade sliding past bone or finding it. Inches between pulling the trigger or hesitating.
This wasn’t new.
What was new was the way Viper stiffened beside the wall. Barely visible, but Titus saw it. The tightening through his shoulders. The way his jaw set harder.
This landed for him, Titus realized.
The doctor went on. “You’re restricted. No operations. Limited movement only. Recovery window is several weeks. Four to six minimum—longer if you push it.”
Titus scoffed under his breath. If.
Before he could argue, Viper spoke.
“He’ll stay still.”
Flat. Certain.
Titus felt something twist in his chest that had nothing to do with the wound.
“I’m not staying here,” Titus informed the doctor. “I’ll lie low, but I’m not spending the night in here.”
“I can’t be responsible,” the doc grimaced.
“I’ll take responsibility,” Viper said, voice low.
The doctor glanced between them, hesitated, but then nodded, and moved on—apparently satisfied.
Titus rolled his eyes hard enough to make a point of it.
When the doctor left, the quiet came back fast and heavy.
This time, it brought images with it.
The gunshot. The way the world had narrowed to soundless chaos. The floor rushing up. Viper’s arms around him—too tight, too fast, like he was trying to stop something already in motion.
