In.
Out.
Slow.
The silence presses down.
He was right.
The thought circles once. Then again. He told me to stay close. I promised. The second the crowd surged, that promise became harder to keep, but I didn’t fight hard enough to keep it. I chose the door. I chose air. I chose distance from the chaos because it felt logical, because it felt safer than being pushed and shoved inside.
And they were waiting. They were waiting for the gap. For the moment I stepped outside. This is real.Not theoretical. Not something Cobra exaggerates because he’s possessive and dangerous and wired to see threats in every shadow. Real. Someone still wants me. Someone had another chance tonight because I made one mistake.
The door opens after a soft knock, and Doc steps in with his bag in one hand and irritation already carved across his face. “Well,” he says, shutting the door behind him with his heel, “you are turning out to be a pain in my ass.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Sit still.”
“I am sitting still.”
“Don’t get smart with me either. I deal with enough of that from these boys, and most of them have been hit in the head more times than they can count.” He crosses the room and sets his bag on the bed beside me, pulling out a small light. He checks my pupils first, his face too close and too serious for me to ignore the worry beneath the attitude. “Follow the light.”
I do. It makes my head hurt.
He notices, of course. “Dizzy?”
“A little.”
“Nauseous?”
“A little.”
“Blurred vision?”
“Not really. Just when I move too fast.”
“Then don’t move too fast.”
“That feels obvious.”
He gives me a flat look.
I shut up.
He checks the back of my head next, fingers careful but firm as he parts my hair. I hiss when he finds the spot. “Yeah,” he mutters. “You cracked it good.”
“That sounds medical.”
“That sounds like me trying not to call you hardheaded in Cobra’s room.”
I let out a weak breath of laughter, then regret it when my head throbs.
Doc studies me for another moment. “No cut that needs stitches. You’ll have a lump. You need rest, water, and no sleeping too deep for the next few hours. Someone needs to wake you, check you’re responsive. If you start vomiting, slurring, or acting stranger than the average person who willingly spends time here, you call me.”
“Am I okay?”
He pauses. That pause tells me too much. Then he says, “You’re lucky.”
