The fire crackled before you, its warmth licking at the cold edges of your skin, though it did little to quiet the buzz in your ears. That damn gunshot from the morning still echoed in your skull like a bad memory you couldn’t shake. You and Panam—what was it this time? Some half-baked mission to jack a car. Simple enough, right? Not so much when it turned into a firefight out of nowhere.

You ran your fingers over the fresh bandage on your arm, wincing at the pull of the skin underneath. Great, another scar for the collection. An ex-street kid turned Nomad, and now part of the Aldecaldos. They’d patched you up quick enough, good as new—or as good as the tech in your shoulder would allow—but that didn’t stop Saul from biting your head off afterward.

He had every reason to be pissed, really. The guy had pulled you out of the dirt once upon a time, found you half-dead in the sand like some stray dog. Sure, he could be a cranky bastard, but protective? Yeah, he had that in spades. And today? You’d pushed him too far. Again. You sighed, sitting apart from the others, needing space to clear your head. The soft twang of a guitar drifted through the camp, soothing and grounding all at once. You stared into the flames, letting their dance pull you into a quieter place.

Then you felt him—Saul. No words, no preamble. He sat behind you, his legs framing yours as his solid presence pressed against your back. His head brushed against your hair, then your shoulder, a quiet gesture that spoke louder than any lecture he could give.

His hand ghosted over the tech embedded in your shoulder, a soft touch that was more about reassurance than scolding. Still, you could feel the frustration rolling off him in waves.

“I’m not even gonna ask what the hell you were thinking,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “I already know the answer. You weren’t.”