"Yes."
"And you die."
"That's the job," he whispers. "Even if... even if it kills me."
The wound is ugly. The bullet tore through the bicep, nicking the artery—bright red blood pulsing with every heartbeat. Arterial. This doesn't slow on its own.
I dig into the kit. Behind the clotting gauze and the pressure dressings, my fingers close on a hard plastic case. Orange and black. CAT tourniquet, with a folded instruction card tucked inside the band.
Of course a paranoid operator who digs sixty-yard tunnels in his spare time carries a tourniquet in his trauma kit with printed instructions for the person who might have to use it on him.
I unfold the card and hold it close to the glow stick.
Route the band above the elbow—two inches proximal to the wound. Feed it through the buckle and pull it tight. Securethe hook-and-loop. Then the windlass: twist until the bleeding stops.
I work fast, sliding the band up his arm, threading it through.
"This is going to hurt."
"Everything hurts." His jaw is set. "Do it."
I cinch the band tight and start turning the windlass.
He makes a sound low in his throat—compressed agony, forced through clenched teeth. His free hand drives into the dirt, knuckles white. I keep turning. One rotation. Two. The blood flow slows. Another half turn.
Stops.
I lock the windlass into the clip and hold it there, watching the wound. The bright arterial pulse is gone.
"Okay." My hands are shaking. "Okay. It's holding."
I slump against the dirt wall, bloody palms on my thighs.
"Why?" Kade asks. His voice has gone thin.
"Why what?"
"Why stay? You could make it. You're fast. You're smart."
"Because I love you, you idiot."
The words hang in the cold air, heavier than the gun, sharper than the knife.
Kade blinks. His gaze clears. "Wren..."
"I love you," I say again, angry now. "I love that you make me coffee. I love that you taught me to shoot." I grab his face, forcing him to look at me. "I’ve known you for three days, and still I love you. So you don't get to die. You don't get to be a tragic hero in my story. You have to live so I can yell at you for getting shot."
He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. His good hand comes up, thumb brushing the dirt from my cheek. "I thought I was supposed to be the one saving you."
"We save each other." I press my forehead to his. "That's the deal."
He pulls me down, his lips finding mine. He tastes like copper and shock. Underneath that, he tastes like Kade. Like the boulder in the sun. Like home.
"Okay," he whispers against my mouth. "Okay. We save each other."
"Can you walk?"
"For you?" The steel comes back into his eyes, slow but unmistakable. "I'd crawl."
