Still—
My mind drifts anyway.
Back to him.
Clay standing in that medical room eight months ago while I fought to keep my temper under control.
“You tore stitches again.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding through the bandage.”
“It’ll heal.”
God, he was infuriating.
Big.
Stoic.
Impossible.
Like talking to a concrete wall that occasionally glared at you.
But I remembered the exhaustion in his eyes that day.
The way his hand shook slightly when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The way he kept pushing himself long after his body should’ve stopped.
“You’re not invincible,” I’d snapped at him.
His expression never changed.
“Didn’t say I was.”
“No,” I mutter quietly now, staring down at the water bottle in my hands. “You just act like it.”
A humorless smile almost pulls at my mouth before disappearing just as fast.
Because suddenly I can picture exactly what he’s doing right now.
Pacing.
Checking weapons repeatedly.
Pretending this is just another mission.
Pretending he isn’t emotionally involved.
The idiot.
My chest tightens again before I can stop it.
Because deep down—
I know he came the second they told him.
