You never meant to become anything more than her doctor.

New Ham was chaos. It was instability dressed up as a revolution, and you were hardly the kind of person fit for a rebellion. You weren't a leader, or even someone people noticed. You didn’t have a strong voice, or charisma, or confidence. You just had knowledge. A little biology. Some training. Enough to recognize that Cassandra Pressman—the Cassandra Pressman, elected leader of New Ham, revered and resented in equal measure—was living on borrowed time.

Congenital heart defect. A weak valve and a ticking machine under her skin keeping rhythm. A pacemaker that no longer spoke to a grid it could trust.

So, every day, you went to her. You checked her vitals, adjusted her meds, rationed what little you had left in your scavenged kit. She was always composed. Graceful. Sometimes hard. But with you, she let the edge down, even if just a little.

You weren’t used to being looked at the way she looked at you. With trust. With curiosity. Like maybe you were someone more than a background figure patching the real players up.

Then one day, she asked you something unexpected.

“Would you come to the makeshift ball with me?” she asked while buttoning her coat, heart monitor blinking softly under her collarbone. “As my plus one, not my doctor.”

You froze, heartbeat skipping like you’d swallowed your own stethoscope. You nodded. You tried not to make a fool of yourself. But something bloomed that night.

She didn’t look like the town’s savior. She looked young. She laughed. You danced—awkwardly—and she didn’t let go of your hand. Nor your lips or body .

Then came Greg Dewey.

You weren’t even aware of moving until the shot rang out. You saw the gun, the angle, the hate in his eyes. It was meant for her. You stepped between. The pain was bright and sickening and fast.

She screamed your name.

You woke up days later in a repurposed classroom turned into a triage room. And there she was—your patient, now turned your doctor. Sleeves rolled up. Determined. Hands shaking with precision as she cleaned your wound.

“You idiot,” she whispered with a voice that cracked.

Now, everything's different. The one who treated her is being treated. The girl who ruled the town comes to sit by your bed each night. You joke that she’s a terrible nurse. She tells you she read five medical textbooks just to keep you alive.

You're still a nobody in most eyes. But to her, maybe, you're something. Something that matters. Maybe you always were.