The medic tent smelled like sweat and antiseptic, bloodstained gauze scattered across the floor like grim confetti. You found Bobby slouched against one of the cot frames, her dark hair matted with sweat and dirt. There was a deep gash on her forehead, cut across her cheekbone, but it was the way her eye—her right eye. A near miss. A bullet had barely avoided the socket, the area around it already swelling ominously. Too close for comfort.

“’M fine. Quit fussin’.” She waved a dismissive hand when you hurried over, lips twisted in a stubborn grimace.

Fine, really? The dark bruising around her temple said otherwise. Kneeling before her, gritty dust stinging your palms as you touched the cut on her cheek, you studied her face closely. She tried to shift, wincing ever so slightly. Her shoulders stiffened in that familiar, frustrating way that told you she was bracing against any sign of weakness.

You gently reached out a hand to brush some grit off her forehead, the calluses on her skin scraping your palm.

Jesus. You'd for sure have a head full of grey hairs by thirty cause of her.