Shock.
Relief.
Maybe both.
I press gently around the wound.
“You’re lucky,” I say. “Another inch and we’d be having a very different conversation.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“I know.”
And I do.
That’s the part that sits heavy. I can see all his scars while his shirt is off.
I finish taping the bandage, smoothing it into place, my fingers steady now.
Finally.
We sit there in the quiet.
Close.
Not touching.
But close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him.
Close enough that it matters.
“I shouldn’t have walked away,” he says suddenly.
The words are low.
Rough.
I look at him.
Really look at him.
“That wasn’t about me,” I say gently. “That was about your ghosts.”
He exhales slowly.
Like the truth costs him something.
“Yes.”
Silence settles again.
Soft this time.
Not sharp.
Not heavy.
Just… there.
