The words land like a slap.
Not because they’re wrong.
Because of how easily he says them.
Like that’s all it was.
Like that’s allthisis.
Something twists hard in my chest.
Pain.
Anger.
Something worse.
“Right,” I say, my voice dropping. “Your job is to nearly die. Mine to clean it up. That it?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
Silence crashes between us.
Tense.
Explosive.
Because we’re both right on the edge now.
“You don’t get it,” he says finally, voice lower now. Controlled—but tight.
“Then explain it to me,” I fire back. “Explain why you think walking back into a mission in this condition is a good idea.”
“It’s not about what I think,” he says. “It’s what I do.”
“That’s not an answer—that’s an excuse.”
His eyes flash.
“There are people out there who don’t get to wait until I feel one hundred percent.”
“And there are people in here who don’t get a second chance if you collapse again!” I shoot back.
That stops him.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
I step closer.
Not backing down.
Not this time.
“I watched your body shut down,” I say, my voice lower now—but more intense. “I watched your pulse drop. I watched you fight to stay conscious when you should’ve already been gone.”
