I woke up to the sharp ache in my side and the steady beeping of a heart monitor. It took a second to piece together where I was—a hospital, not the field—and the realization hit like a punch to the gut. I’d been pulled out. I tried to sit up, but pain shot through me, and a quiet voice stopped me cold “Don’t move. You’ll tear your stitches.” My eyes snapped to you, standing by the bed, clipboard in hand. You looked calm, like you dealt with angry men every day, but it only made my frustration burn hotter.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I growled, the words sharp and bitter. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you just met my glare with a steady gaze, like you had already decided you weren’t going to let me win.