Page 229 of Immune

Ellis pulls another stitch through Maine’s side and the big pansy hisses through his teeth. My fingers tighten, and so do his.

“I need him still,” Ellis instructs without looking up.

“Sure. I’ll just pass that along to his personality. I’ll let you know its response,” I tell her.

Maine makes a sound. Not a laugh. Not quite. It cuts off fast, swallowed harshly by pain, and I stare at his face because looking away feels a little too dangerous right now. Like if I stop watching, the universe will realize it made a cosmic error and correct itself.

He’s older.

I can’t stop noticing it.

Every single time I find something familiar, something else comes in and ruins it. Same scar through his left eyebrow, but there’s a new scar that crosses his jaw. Same gray eyes, but new shadows under them. Same pale hair, but now cut unevenly and longer and dirtier. Not Maine’s hair, except it is. I mean, it’s attached to his head, after all.

He’s my brother and not my brother at the same time.

Alive, but still six years gone.

Both things sit heavily on my chest, wielding a spike-filled baseball bat.

“I need to close the deeper tear,” Ellis explains. “Then he needs fluids, antibiotics, and rest.”

Maine’s mouth twitches. “I’m fine.”

I stare at him.

Ellis stares at him.

The dust particles floating through the air stare at him.

Mercer, from somewhere near the door, sighs as if the entire male population has personally disappointed him.

Maine looks at me, then at Ellis. Then corrects himself like an idiot. “I’m fine-adjacent.”

I actually hate that I almost smile. I hate him for still knowing where the hiding spot for those things might live in me.

Ellis finishes the stitch without a response and reaches for fresh gauze. Then she says, “Everyone not medically useful can get out.”

Hale stiffens. “This is a security matter.”

Ellis doesn’t even bother to look at him. “Then secure yourself outside.”

Ewan makes yet another tiny sound near the door, but I don’t turn. If I look at him, I might actually laugh. Or cry. Or fucking explode. Honestly, all three feel possible at this point in time. A horrible little buffet of conflicting emotions and bottled grief with nowhere else to go.

Valeria mutters something to Hale. Fletcher doesn’t utter a word, but I feel him standing between us and the room like a wall that has learned the ancient art of restraint. Xeon is quieter than the medical equipment in the room with us. Kaito is close to the door too, close enough that his burning wood and worn flannel scent threads faintly under the blood, antiseptic, and the fresh-cut grass that keeps trying to ruin me.

Maine’s eyes flick that way. Not suspicious, just careful. Like protective instincts trying to stand up on broken legs.

“Don’t,” I say.

His gaze comes back to me, but I don’t even know what I mean.

Don’t ask.

Don’t Alpha-posture while currently horizontal and leaking like an idiot.

Don’t act like you still know how my life looks.

Don’t look at them like they’re the danger when you’re the one that left a hole so big I built an entire person inside it.