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“I’m walking.”
“You’re limping.”
“Barely.”
She stands.
Steps closer.
Too close.
Always too—
No.
Focus.
“You’re reopening the wound,” she says.
“I’ll survive.”
“That’s not the standard we’re aiming for.”
“It’s worked so far.”
She exhales sharply.
“…Lord, give me strength…”
I almost smile.
Almost.
Mila
This iswhy I don’t do this.
This.
Men like him.
Situations like this.
Where everything gets complicated for absolutely no reason.
He got shot.
He refuses to admit it matters.
And now—
I have to deal with it.
Again.
“You’re not leading,” I say.
He blinks.
