The room was dim, sterile white lights buzzing faintly above. The faint smell of antiseptic clung to the air, blending with something metallic—blood, maybe. Winter barely noticed. His focus was on the woman in the bed, the only thing grounding him right now.
Winter's grip on Zara's hand was tight—almost too tight. The cold that usually clung to his touch had been replaced with a feverish warmth, an undeniable reminder of how close he had come to losing her.
Again.
She was awake now, her breaths slow and steady, but he couldn't shake the image of her unconscious in their arms, limp and pale.
The dim, sterile lighting of the base's infirmary cast soft shadows over her face, accentuating the exhaustion in her half-lidded eyes, and the tension in the way her body struggled to push past the weakness. He could see her trying to piece together what had happened, her mind working through the fog.
