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Hannah flipped on a machine behind her, then snapped a plastic clip onto his right index finger. She pulled a stethoscope out of a tiny cabinet, then shifted to sit beside him on the stretcher.
It put her thigh against his, and even though he wore soaked jeans and she wore bunker pants, he imagined he could feel her warmth.
“Just breathe normally.” She plugged the earpieces into her ears.
He nodded. It took everything he had not to lean into her.
Then her hand slid under the back of his shirt, and she might as well have hit him with a live wire.
“Sorry.” She winced and pulled the stethoscope away. “Cold hands?”
As if that were the problem. He shook his head quickly. “No. It’s fine.”
She put the metal and plastic back against his skin, her fingers warm where she touched him. Michael breathed and wished his worries could condense to the space inside this ambulance, just for a moment.
She moved the stethoscope for a few heartbeats, then again. Her other hand rested on his bicep, gentle and reassuring. Michael shut his eyes and tried to hold still.
“You okay?”
Her voice was very close. He opened his eyes and looked at her. “No.”
“You stopped breathing.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He swallowed and took a deep breath.
“If I’m making you uncomfortable—”
“Never.” He looked at her. “Never, Hannah.”
She studied him, her eyes full of uncertainty. “I thought you—I thought—” She broke off and looked away. He watched her throat jerk as she swallowed. “I thought I was going to have to give your brothers some very bad news.”
The words—the wavering emotion in her voice—hit him hard. He’d spent so many years worrying about everyone else that it was a shock to hear someone express worry over him.
He realigned everything she’d said to him since the moment he’d woken up, and everything he’d said to her.
Fine. I’ll sign whatever so I can get out of here.
He put his hands over the place where her fingers rested on his arm. He wanted to do more than that, to collapse on her shoulder, to curl up and clutch her against him, but if he fell apart now, he’d never get it together.
He ducked his head and kept his voice low. “How do my lungs sound, Doctor?”
After a breath, she rested her forehead against the side of his face. She smelled like soot and ash and sweat, but under that was something warm and sweet, like sugar cookies. When she blinked, her lashes fluttered against his cheek. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Paramedic.”
“Not yet. You know I still have another year of—”
He couldn’t take it. Michael wrapped his arms around her and crushed her against his chest. His breathing was shaky, and he didn’t trust his voice, but he held her, and she let him.
No, she held him back.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’ll be okay.”
“It’s not,” he said, his voice thick. “Not even a little bit.”
Despite everything his family had gone through, they’d always had a home. He’d made sure of it. The shelves were never overflowing with food, and there’d been a year when he’d turned off cable and made the guys share one cell phone, but they’d had a roof over their heads and beds to sleep in. Always somewhere to come back to.
And now they had . . . what? The truck? The car? Considering the earthquake, he wasn’t sure they even had that much.
