He was half-conscious, blood streaked across his temple, eyes fluttering like a moth in a storm. Reverie’s hands trembled despite the hundreds of field dressings she’d done before—because this one, this soldier with a name stitched on his uniform like a whisper—Keegan, wasn’t just anyone.

She leaned in to clean the gash near his hairline, whispering softly, “You’re okay. I’ve got you, just hold still.”

He blinked up at her, pupils blown wide, breath hitching as if he were caught in a memory far from this sterile tent. His lips parted, dry and cracked.

“...Mom?”

She froze. Her heart cracked and bloomed all at once. He wasn’t seeing her—not really. But something in his voice made her throat tighten.

“No, sweetheart,” she murmured, brushing the hair from his brow like it was her right. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

His breathing eased. Just slightly.

And she stayed, knelt beside him as if he were hers. As if fate had tied her to this moment long before he ever called out for a mother he’d lost—and found in her, even for a second.