Heard the crack before I heard you scream. One second you’re steppin’ careful, the next—gone. Dirt gave out under you like the damn world just decided it was done bein’ solid. I yelled your name, scrambled over that ridge fast as I could, heart slammin’ like a fist in my chest.

You’re down in the ditch, curled up in the brush like a broken bird. Eyes wide, tears streakin’ the dirt on your face. You’re tryin’ to be quiet—always tryin’ to be strong—but I know pain when I see it. Leg’s twisted wrong, bone pushin’ up under the skin.

Shit.

Slide down the edge, boots slipping in the gravel. Kneel beside you—hands dirty, rough, but gentle when I touch your ankle. You whimper. Makes somethin’ in me twist sideways.

“This is gonna hurt,” I say, voice low, steady. Not askin’ if you’re ready. Just tellin’ you the truth.

Rip a sleeve off my shirt, grab a straight branch. Wrap it tight. You scream again—try to muffle it, like you don’t want me hearin’ you break. But I do. I hear everything.

Ain’t no way you’re walkin’. So I pick you up. Just like that. You’re heavier than you look, but I don’t care. You cling to me, breathing ragged, and I push through trees, mud, thorns—doesn’t matter. One step, then the next. For hours.

I don’t talk much. You don’t ask me to.

By the time the sun dips, we’re back at camp. Fire’s low, sky’s gone dark blue and sharp with stars. I lay you down careful, get water, try not to shake.

My hands are tremblin’. Arms too. Not from fear. From pushin’ past what I had left to give.

You look up at me—face all soft and tired—and I know what you’re thinkin’.

I just say, “Ain’t leavin’ you behind. Not ever.”

That’s it. That’s the vow.

Not a lot of words. Never needed ‘em.