I look down at my leg. At the empty space that used to be me. “Well, shit. You can have mine then. You want it? You want this ‘badge’?” I slap my thigh hard enough to sting. “You want the phantom pain and the TBI and the limp and the nightmares?”
Brandt doesn’t flinch. He just watches me unravel.
“I would trade this in a second,” I spit. “I don’t care what it means. Fuck courage. Fuck honor. I want my leg back.”
He squats between my legs and gets right up in my face. “I know you do. But you’re still here. And every inch of you—scarred, healed, whatever—is mine. Just like every inch of me is yours.”
“You don’t get it,” I say. “You could look like you used to. Before the blast. You could look—” I cut myself off.
“Normal?” he says, gently.
I wince. “I didn’t mean?—”
“I know what you meant.” He reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “But those scars? They’re part of who I became when everything changed. You think I don’t want to forget? You think I want to pretend I wasn’t scared out of my mind every night in that hospital, wondering if you were gonna die in your sleep, or if I was?”
My throat tightens. “I just want you to be okay.”
“I am,” he says. “And so are you. Even if you don’t feel like it every day.”
He squeezes my hand. I squeeze back, not trusting my voice.
He leans in until our foreheads touch. “If you have to wear the badge, so do I. We got through that shit together. I'm not scrubbing the record clean just because I can. Not when it still lives in my chest… My ribs… My memories.”
The room spins a little, and I breathe deep through my nose. “You’re perfect,” I whisper.
He smiles, just a little. “So are you. Even with your moody ass and your robot leg.”
I huff a laugh, watery and cracked. “I hate this place.”
“I know,” he says, standing up. “But you came anyway. And that counts.”
Later that night, the house reeks of kettle corn and the faint chemical tang of skin cream—Brandt’s nightly routine, though he never remembers to cap the jar. The lamp’s on its lowest setting, casting a warm orange glow that makes everything feel soft.
Brandt’s curled on the couch, half-wrapped in the throw blanket, one foot still touching the floor like his body never quite trusts full rest. Top Gun’s rolling through the credits on mute, subtitles flickering across the screen.
He’s out cold.
I stand in the doorway for a minute, just watching him.
It’s not the first time he’s fallen asleep like this, but something about tonight feels different. Maybe it’s the way Brandt’s head is tipped just slightly, like he was waiting for me to sit beside him. Maybe it’s the way his fingers are still curled around the remote, but not tightly—like he doesn’t need control every second anymore.
Or maybe it’s the conversation we had earlier today in the doctor’s office, where Brandt said he wouldn’t trade anything, because it brought us here, and we’re in this together.
I cross the room quietly, lowering to my knees beside the couch.
“Old man,” I murmur, not loud enough to wake him.
Brandt’s still wearing his hearing aids. He always forgets. And when he does remember, he says it’s because the world’s a little easier to hold onto when the background doesn’t fade.
Gently cupping Brandt’s ear, I slip the first aid free, then the second, and set them both in the charger case sitting on the end table. I wipe them down with a cloth from the little kit the audiologist gave us.
I’ve never done this part for him. Never cleaned Brandt’s hearing aids before. Earwax is fucking nasty and above and beyond the call of duty for love. But, fuck, he’d do it for me, no doubt. There’s a little instruction booklet tucked into the drawer on the side table, and I grab it and flip through, checking to make sure I’m doing this right.
When I flip the case closed, I pull the blanket a little higher, tucking it right under Brandt’s scruffy chin, and press a kiss to his forehead. I smooth the fabric down where it bunches at the hip. My hand pauses over the faded scar on Brandt’s abdomen, just visible beneath the hem of his tank top. Lightly, I press my palm there. Not to trace it. Not to pity it. Just to feel the reminder of everything we survived. Together.
“Not fixing you,” I whisper. “Just taking care of what’s already perfect.”
Brandt stirs, brow twitching like he’s trying to figure out where he is, but then relaxes again. I pull away, switch off the lamp, and stand in the dark for a moment. I used to think love was about being held together. But now I know sometimes it’s about doing the holding.
