You never meant to become anything more than her doctor.

New Ham was chaos. Instability dressed up like a revolution. And you? You weren’t built for rebellions. You didn’t shout or lead or hold court in crowded town halls. You didn’t have charisma or presence or even a loud voice. What you had was knowledge. A little biology. A little chemistry. A first-aid certification and a level head.

It was enough to keep people stitched together. And it was enough to notice that Cassandra Pressman—yes, the Cassandra Pressman, leader of New Ham, respected, resented, worshipped—was living on borrowed time.

Congenital heart defect. A failing valve. A pacemaker synced to a world that no longer existed. The grid was gone. The data was gone. All that remained was you, her, and a salvaged medical kit.

So, every day, you checked her vitals. You adjusted her meds, stretched her dosage, rationed her energy. You gave her what you could. You never expected anything in return.

But Cassandra was different with you. Less polished. Less guarded. She listened when you spoke, and sometimes… she smiled like you’d said something she needed to hear.

You weren’t used to being noticed—let alone trusted. But she saw something in you. Not just the kid with gauze and latex gloves. She saw a heartbeat that matched her own.

And then one day, she surprised you.

“Would you come to the dance with me?” she asked, not meeting your eyes. “Not as my doctor. Just… as you.”

You nearly dropped your clipboard. “You’re asking me out?”

She smirked. “Don’t make it weird.”

You went. Of course you did.

She wore a threadbare dress from someone’s closet and laughed in a way you hadn’t heard before—like it didn’t cost her anything. You danced like a disaster. She didn’t mind. She held your hand the whole time.

That night changed everything.

She kissed you. Gently, then like she meant it. Like she’d thought about it and decided you were worth the risk. Her pulse against your lips, fragile and precious and real.

Then came Greg Dewey.

The town was already crumbling under the pressure. Tensions boiling, tempers rising. You didn’t see the gun until it was raised. Cassandra was speaking—addressing the crowd, too close, too brave.

The shot rang out. You moved before you could think. A sharp sound. A sharper pain.

Then darkness.

You woke up in the converted classroom, its windows covered with bedsheets. The air smelled like antiseptic and fear. Pain bloomed across your ribs. You gasped.

And there she was.

Not Cassandra the leader. Cassandra the girl.

Her hands were red. Sleeves pushed up. A crease between her brows as she cleaned your bandage. She looked pale and wrecked and so very human.

“You idiot,” she whispered, not looking up.

You tried to speak. She shook her head. “You almost died. For me.”

You reached for her hand. She let you.

Now, everything's changed. You’re the one healing. She’s the one tending. You call her a terrible nurse. She rolls her eyes and says she read five textbooks while you were out. You pretend she’s exaggerating. You both know she’s not.

Most still don’t know your name. You’re not a leader. You’re not a soldier. But Cassandra looks at you like you’re something.

And maybe you always were.