He moved. Relief hit hard and fast, almost dizzying.
“I’m good,” he said immediately, voice strained but solid. Too quick. “Just…fuck…winded.”
I crouched beside him, one knee hitting gravel. His helmet was still on, the side scuffed to shit like it had been attacked with a cheese grater. His hands were clenched around his ribs like he was holding himself together by force alone.
“I’m fine, Reap,” he winced.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I said. “Stay still.”
He laughed. Actually laughed. But it came out wrong. Short. Broken at the edges.
“Did the others get Indie away?” he asked now, his voice raspy.
I reached for the fabric covering his face.
“Don’t…” he said, then stopped, jaw tightening. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”
When I pushed it down, his face was pale beneath the road grime. Sweat slicked his skin despite the cold. His eyes tracked me, just a fraction too slow before they focused.
“How many fingers?” I asked.
He squinted. “That your way of asking if I’m concussed?”
“Humour me.”
“Three,” he said.
I was holding up two. My stomach dropped, slow and sick.
“You sure?” I asked quietly.
He frowned, blinked hard, then huffed out a breath. “Two. You’re not that ugly, Reap.”
I didn’t smile.
“Where does it hurt?” I asked.
He hesitated. That hesitation was the first real crack.
“Chest,” he said finally. “Feels like someone parked a bike on it.”
“Any sharp pain?”
He nodded once. “When I breathe deep.”
I pressed my hand lightly to his jacket, just below his collarbone. I didn’t push. I didn’t need to. His body flinched anyway.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “That’s not great, is it?”
“No,” I said. “It’s not.”
He shifted, trying to sit up. His breath stuttered halfway through the movement, and he swore, teeth gritting like pain was something he could out-stubborn.
“Magnet,” I said, gripping his shoulder. “Stay down.”
He looked at me then, and something passed between us. Not fear exactly, but awareness.
“Don’t let them move the bikes yet,” he said suddenly. “If the cops come—”
