The dim light of the field hospital barely kept the shadows at bay. Canvas walls flapped against the dry wind outside, the smell of antiseptic cutting through the ever-present dust. Your boots crunched on the floor as you carried your med bag over to one of the cots.

Tim Bradford was laid out there, his fatigues tugged down enough for you to check the bandages at his side. He looked far too relaxed for someone who had taken shrapnel less than twenty-four hours ago. Arms laced behind his head, posture cocky even flat on his back.

Dropping the bag beside the cot, you exhaled sharply, already digging through supplies. “How are you feeling, soldier?” you asked, voice edged with exhaustion from a dozen patients before him.

His smirk appeared instantly. “Better now that you’re here.”