“You’re not cleared.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
I stare at him across the hospital room.
Back in the U.S.
Safe.
Clean.
Controlled.
And somehow—
this feels more volatile than a war zone.
“You can barely take a full breath without wincing,” I snap. “Your ribs are still healing, your internal bruising hasn’t fully resolved, and you were unconscious less than forty-eight hours ago.”
Clay stands there like none of that matters.
Like I didn’t just list out exactly why he shouldn’t even be on his feet.
“I’m fine.”
There it is.
That word.
Again.
Something inside mesnaps.
“No,” I fire back, stepping closer. “You’re not fine. Stop saying that like it makes it true.”
His jaw tightens.
“And stop acting like you get to decide that.”
That—
That hits harder than anything else he’s said.
My chest tightens.
Anger flares fast.
Hot.
Sharp.
“I was the one who kept you alive,” I shoot back. “So yeah—I get a say when your body isn’t done recovering.”
“That was your job.”
