Page 37 of Pocket Wife

“Yes.”

The word is clean. The meaning is not.

I climb out through the bent side hatch, ignoring the protest in my ribs. Wind strikes my face, cold and dusty. The road above looks impossibly far. The valley is hidden behind the ridge, cut off by stone and distance.

Rethan passes the sealed evidence case out first.

That annoys me until I realize he did it before checking his own injury.

“Your sleeve,” I say.

He looks down as if noticing the dark tear near his upper arm only because I mentioned it. Silver-blue skin shows beneath the fabric, scored by a shallow cut.

“It is minor.”

“Sit down.”

“Unnecessary.”

“Rethan.”

He pauses.

I point to a flat stone. “If you fall over out here after telling everyone you’re functional, I will let Torren mock you forever.”

“That would be inefficient for morale.”

“Sit.”

He sits.

I clean the cut with the field kit from the crawler, hands steadier than I feel. His skin is warmer than I expect. The faint luminous lines along his arm dim where blood gathers, then brighten again as I wrap the bandage.

“You are skilled,” he says.

“I live around farm equipment. Everyone learns basic repairs.”

“I am not equipment.”

“No, you complain less.”

His eyes meet mine.

The wind moves between us, carrying dust and the dry scent of ridge grass. Only now, in the wreck’s stillness, do I become aware of how close we are. His arm rests in my hands. His face is only a breath away by human measure. Not the stillness. Not the gold of his eyes. Not the careful restraint in every movement.

“You protected the case first,” I say.

“I protected you first.”

The answer leaves no room for argument.

My fingers tighten around the bandage.

For one reckless second, the ridge, the crash, Helix, the whole wounded valley narrows to the heat of his skin under my hands and the impossible steadiness of his gaze.

Then the crawler’s emergency beacon gives a dying chirp and goes silent.

Reality returns hard.