Sound came first. A low mechanical hum under the walls, a rhythm like a steady heart somewhere below the floor. Voices moved past the door, too soft to catch, the syllables blurring into a wash that rose and fell.
Iyisha lay still, listening, letting the world settle into place. There was no alarms, no gunfire and no wind cutting through trees.
It felt too much like Redridge.
Her eyes opened. The light above her was dim and yellow.
Her shoulder ached, but the ache was dulled, padded with a slow warmth that kept the edges from tearing. She lifted her hand and found bare skin.
The IV was gone.
She breathed in. Antiseptic clung to the room. Soap. Old wood. The faintest trace of rice cooling in a pot somewhere beyond the walls.
Her body felt heavy, but her head was clear. The fog had thinned. Thoughts came in order instead of scattered shards.
A chair scraped.
She turned her head and found Malcolm asleep sitting upright, chin lowered, arms folded across his chest. He had not let himself lean back. His shoulders were braced, his boots planted, as if even in sleep he was ready to stand up and fight.
Stubble shadowed his jaw. The skin beneath his eyes was dark, the hollows deeper than she had ever seen. His knuckles were raw, the cuts crusted. A smear of oil stained his sleeve where his palm had dragged over it. He looked carved down to bone by days that would not let him rest.
Her chest gave a small ache that surprised her. It was not the wound. It was the sight of him like this, worn thin, still here.
She shifted. The mattress rustled. Malcolm's head came up at once, eyes opening clean and alert, as if he had never been asleep at all.
His gaze went to her face, then to the line of her shoulder, then to the bandage. He stood and the chair legs clicked together on the concrete.
"You're awake," he said. His voice was quiet, rough with disuse.
"I am." She tried to smile. It came out weak and crooked. "No IV."
"They pulled it an hour ago." He touched the rail with two fingers, not the bed, as if guarding without crowding her. "You slept hard."
"How long?"
"A night and most of a day. Fever broke." He searched her eyes, not trusting her answer more than he trusted his own read of her skin.
"Pain?"
"Manageable." The word felt like a small victory.
He nodded once. He reached for the plastic cup on the small table and held it for her while she drank.
The water was warm, but it was water, and it slid down her throat like something holy. When she was done, he set it down and offered his hand.
"Slow," he said. "Let me help you sit."
She let him. His palm was warm and scarred. He steadied the back of her head with the other hand and eased her up in a careful arc that did not pull at the wound.
"Thank you," she said. The words were simple, but they carried a weight she could feel.
He shook his head. "Don't thank me. Just stay alive."
It should have sounded cold. It did not. It sounded like a vow he had already made and would not take back.
She watched him.
In the quiet, she saw him more clearly than before. The jacket folded on the chair seat bore dirt from the road. His shirt had been washed by hand and dried too stiff.
There were two new repairs on his sleeve, rough thread in a straight line that did not match the original stitching. He had done them himself. The knife at his belt was clean.
The rifle leaned against the wall within reach, the safety on, the strap looped twice so it would not slide.
All the small signs of a man who had chosen not to sleep so she could.
Something bright and reckless lifted inside her. Gratitude was not enough. The ache in her chest turned into a spark that wanted air.
She wanted to do more than whisper thanks and close her eyes again.
She wanted to stand in her own skin, to prove that she was still here, that the wound had not taken everything. She wanted to touch the man who had kept her alive and take back something of herself at the same time.
"Sit with me," she said.
He glanced at the door, then at her face again. "You should rest."
"I have been resting. I want to sit with you."
He hesitated, then drew the chair closer and sat. The wood creaked under his weight. He rested his forearms on his knees, hands loosely clasped, posture ready to spring.
He was close enough for her to see the tiny flecks of dried blood on his knuckles and the small, pale scar near his thumb she had not noticed before.
"I was out for that long," she said. "You watched me the whole time."
"I slept," he said.
She lifted an eyebrow.
"Some." His mouth almost twitched. "Enough."
"You look terrible," she said. She tried to soften it with a smile. "In a very heroic way."
"Good to know I am ugly."
"You are not ugly." The truth landed before she could dress it in caution. "Quite the opposite, in fact."
He did not answer. Just lifted his eyebrow.
"Malcolm," she said, quieter now. "I know what that cost."
His eyes came back to hers. "Stay alive," he said again, the words slower. "That is the only cost that matters."
Her fingers tightened in the blanket. The spark rose. She did not want to be only a patient in his care. She did not want to be only a weight he carried.
She wanted him to feel her as something alive, not a burden, not a responsibility, not a list of vitals to watch. She wanted to reach him in a way no guard or doctor could measure.
"You keep saying that," she said. "Stay alive."
"I mean it."
"Then take this as proof."
Before fear could talk her out of it, she reached for him. Her hand caught the front of his shirt. The fabric was warm from his body and rough from too many washings.
He looked startled, more from the suddenness than the touch, and she used that small opening.
"Then take this as my payment," she whispered.
"What are you doing?" His voice went even softer, which meant he was worried.
She tugged. He rose without meaning to, and she used the momentum to pull him forward. He set one knee on the edge of the bed to keep from falling on her. She kept pulling. The blanket bunched under her palms.
He reached to brace the headboard so he would not crush her, always thinking of the wound, always calculating angles.
She shifted her legs and drew him closer. Her body trembled with the effort, strength not yet returned, but determination filling the space where muscle failed. He tried to plant his weight and hold the line between them, but the line bent.
"Iyisha," he said. Her name was a warning and a plea. "Stop."
She slid her hands beneath his shirt, fingertips pressing heat into the skin of his back. He felt solid, real, the anchor she had been reaching for since the first time she had opened her eyes to find him standing guard over her.
"Do not pull away from me," she said.
His breath changed. She felt it against her face, steady but strained. "You are hurt."
"I am alive." She drew in a breath that steadied her for the next step. She shifted again and, clumsy but resolute, swung one leg over and settled awkwardly in his lap.
Her thigh shook. Her shoulder flared and she gritted her teeth until the heat receded.
He caught her hips at once, not to pull her close, but to keep her from sliding and tearing the stitches. His hands were careful even now.
"This is not a good idea," he said. His eyes were very dark. "You will regret it when the pain hits."
She let a small sound slip, sharp and soft.
"Ouch." Her fingers went to her side, pressing above the bandage, not on it. His focus snapped there with the precision of a man who had triaged more wounds than he wanted to think about.
"Where?" His hand hovered. "Talk to me."
"Here," she whispered, and while his attention was there, she took his jaw in her palm and turned his face to hers. She rose on her knees, closed the last inch of air between them, and pressed her mouth to his.
He did not respond at first. His jaw was set like stone under her fingers. She kissed him anyway, again and then again, slow and deliberate, as if teaching her mouth how to move after too many days of silence.
The taste of water still sat on her tongue. The faint salt of his skin opened something she had locked away to survive.
"Do not pull away from me now," she whispered against his mouth.
For a heartbeat, he was stone. His breath hot against her cheek, his hands steady on her hips — holding her there, holding himself back.