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“I’m adjusting.”
“You’re bleeding again.”
“I’m managing.”
I stop.
Grab his arm.
Force him to face me.
“You don’t get to manage this,” I say quietly. “Not if you want to stay alive.”
His eyes lock onto mine.
Hard.
Unmoving.
Jase
She’s close.
Again.
Too close.
Again.
And I’m very aware of the fact that I don’t hate that.
Not even a little.
“You done?” I ask.
“No.”
Figures.
“You don’t get to push past this,” she continues. “Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
Because I’ve been doing exactly that for years.
Because it works.
Because it has to.
Her expression shifts.
Not frustration.
Not anger.
Something else.
Something quieter.
