He crouches down in front of the boy despite bullets literally flying over our heads.
“Hey.” His voice drops low and steady. “Look at me.”
The little boy sniffles hard but slowly lifts his eyes.
“You stay behind cover, okay? We’re getting everybody out.”
We.
The word hits me harder than it should.
Clay gently guides the boy toward the concrete barrier before standing again.
And—
Up close like this, I can finally really see him.
The exhaustion in his face.
The tension carved into his shoulders.
The healing injury he’s clearly pretending doesn’t exist.
His vest hangs slightly wrong near his ribs.
Compensating.
Idiot.
Relief crashes into me again so hard it almost hurts.
Because for the past week I’ve kept telling myself not to count on him coming.
And he came anyway.
Of course he did.
Another explosion erupts somewhere outside near the river.
The warehouse lights flicker violently overhead.
“We don’t have much time,” I say quickly. “There are injured civilians in the east corner and at least three armed men still inside.”
Clay’s eyes narrow immediately.
“You treated them?”
“I’m a doctor.”
“Hannah.”
“What was I supposed to do? Let them die? I would have been shot if I hadn’t treated them.”
He exhales sharply like he wants to argue and knows he’s going to lose.
Then suddenly his hand closes around my wrist.
Firm.
