There’s a flicker of something in his expression at that. Irritation, maybe. Or interest. Hard to tell with him.
“You’re giving orders now,” he says.
“Only the useful ones.”
He takes the food without further argument, which is answer enough.
I let out a quiet breath and shift slightly, reaching for the bandage at his side. “This will hurt.”
“It already does.”
“That wasn’t a warning,” I say, and then I press.
He doesn’t react the way most people would. No sharp movement, no sound, just a tightening through his shoulders and a slight shift in his breathing that tells me exactly how much it costs him to stay still.
I unwrap the outer layer carefully, checking the wound beneath, the blood that has slowed but not fully stopped, theedges that need to be cleaned before they become something worse.
“I need to reset this,” I say.
“Do it.”
No hesitation. Of course not.
I work quickly, using what little I have, cleaning the wound as best I can, rewrapping it tighter this time, securing it, hoping it will hold even if he insists on moving sooner than he should.
“You’ll reopen it if you push too soon,” I say, finishing the knot.
“I’m aware.”
“I don’t think you are,” I reply, meeting his gaze. “Not today.”
Something shifts there. Small. Controlled. But real.
“This is where you tell me to remain still,” he says.
“This is where I tell you not to ask questions.”
He goes quiet, watching me more carefully now.
“Just for today,” I add, before he can respond. “You don’t ask. You don’t argue. You don’t try to take control of something you can’t move through. You don't ask why I sabotaged the mission.”
His gaze sharpens slightly. “And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I say, sitting back just enough to give him space, “you can be as angry as you want.”
Silence settles between us, thinner now, stretched over something that hasn’t fully formed yet.
Then, finally?—
“Fine,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
It’s not agreement. But it’s enough. I nod once and look away first, breaking the moment before it turns into something else.
“Eat,” I say.
He does.
We sit in silence for a while after that, the kind that isn’t empty but isn’t comfortable either, shaped by everything we’re not saying more than what we are.