"Hazard of the job. Husband. Vice president. Occasional emotional support bear."
A startled snort escapes me. Loud in this space. I let it happen. "I don't deserve you," I say before I can stop myself.
His jaw tightens. The muscle near his ear tics twice. "Don't do that. Don't decide what you deserve, then punish yourself preemptively. That's my job. I get to decide if I'm in this. And spoiler alert? I am."
My grip tightens on the cup. Before I can answer, a stretcher rolls by, bumping my elbow.
"Sorry!" the EMT calls. "Bleeding through again. Gotta move."
"It's okay," I call back.
I glance at Knox, torn. He sees it.
"Go," he says, nodding toward the cot being prepped. "I'll get out of the way. Just… eat when you can, yeah?"
"I will."
"And Sloane?" His voice drops. I look back. "We're not done. Not in the bad way. Just… I'm here when you're ready. Even if all you can manage is one sentence at a time."
I hold my breath until my chest aches. Let it go. "I'll… try."
He nods once, as though that's enough for now, and steps back out of the flow, melting into the edges of the tent where family members and off-duty volunteers hover.
The tightness behind my sternum gives, just barely. I press my palm flat against it and turn toward the next cot.
Chapter 27
Sloane
Imovethroughpatientswith coffee warming my veins and the faint, treacherous comfort of knowing Knox is somewhere nearby. Present in the loose orbit of the tent. Close enough that I could reach him in a few steps. It helps more than I want it to.
I'm checking capillary refill on a young man's fingers when the noise drops. Not the usual churn of voices rotating through triage. This is sudden. Colder.
Conversation stutters in small clusters. A nurse's voice drops mid-sentence. The tent tightens, and every spine registers it.
I hear heels that are sharp and unhurried. A woman who knows exactly how much sound she's making and what it does to a room. A prickle skates down my arms.
Probably a donor here to be photographed before disappearing back into a cleaner life.
I finish tagging my patient yellow and straighten, rolling my shoulders as I scan the tent.
She's impossible to miss. Alice Brighton moves through the triage space as if it belongs to her. Dark tailored coat, heels that match her lipstick, hair swept into a smooth knot, not a strand out of place despite the smoke and chaos. Visitor badge turned inward. Of course.
She looks composed. Amused. A woman watching theater from the best seat. It can't be her. She wouldn't walk into something this public. She operates behind closed doors.
But her gaze lifts, sweeps the tent, and lands on me. Her expression sharpens when she sees me. Her mouth curves, precise and delighted. And I know she's here for me.
My hands go cold. Everything narrows to her. Alice crosses the space with unhurried steps, people moving aside without realizing they're doing it. She stops a few feet away, close enough that gardenia cuts through the antiseptic.
Up close, she's sharper than the version I buried. Fine lines at the corners of her eyes, a faint scar along her jaw I don't recall. But the same cool, assessing gaze.
"Sloane Mercer," she says. I flinch. No one has called me that in two years. "My, my," she continues softly. "Look at you."
"We're busy. If you're not injured—"
"Oh, I'm not here as a patient." Her tone is pleasant, but the way she steps closer isn't. I brace a hand on the cot behind me. She notices.
"You always did thrive in chaos," she says conversationally. "I remember how calm you were backstage."
