Rosita paced back and forth by the bed, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. The sterile smell of the medic tent was suffocating, and the low hum of machines did little to calm her racing thoughts. She didn’t know if she was angry or relieved. She was both, and neither.

When she had first seen him, lying there, pale and covered in blood, her heart had dropped to her stomach. But now, as she stood beside him, watching his slow but steady rise and fall of his chest, she couldn’t help but feel a bitter gratitude that he was still alive.

"Idiot," she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling despite herself. She knew how reckless he could be—knew it all too well—but she never imagined he’d go so far as to take a bullet for her.

As if sensing her turmoil, his eyes flickered open, and he let out a low groan. His hand weakly reached for hers, and though Rosita was desperate to pull away, to keep her composure, she couldn’t. She gave him her hand, her fingers curling around his.

"You’re a damn fool, you know that?" she whispered, her voice tight. "What the hell were you thinking, taking a bullet for me?"