Page 230 of Immune

Maine swallows, his throat working around whatever hell answer he decides not to give.

Good.

Bad?

I don’t know, I just hate the silence. But I also live there.

Ellis tapes gauze over his ribs before finally leaning back. “There. You rip those, and I’ll staple them again, but I’ll be very rude about it.”

Maine blinks.

I look at her before deciding, “I like you.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” she says before standing and stripping off her bloody latex gloves. “Ten minutes. Then I need to check on him again. If he gets dizzy, pale, feverish, or stupid, give me a call.”

“He’s already stupid,” I comment.

I’m sure her lips twitch, but the movement disappears fast enough that I could be mistaken.

“Then monitor for changes.”

Maine lets out another almost-laugh, and this one hurts so much I almost drop his hand. Because I remember that sound. Not exactly, and not perfectly, but enough.

Ellis herds everyone back with the force of a woman who is fresh out of patience for anything with a structure of command. Hale tries to resist until Valeria snaps his name sharply. Mercer lingers for only a moment, his eyes moving from Maine to me. There’s guilt plastered over his face, but I don’t want it. Not from him. Not from anyone.

“We’ll be right outside,” he says.

I don’t answer, leaving the door to close after him.

Well, not fully. Fletcher doesn’t let it shut completely. He leaves it cracked open, the angle perfect for space without the abandonment. Of course he does, the annoying man.

Maine notices that too, and quietly asks, “They yours?”

I look at him and his mouth tightens.

“Sorry,” he says. “That was bad wording.”

“Catastrophic wording,” I agree.

“Yeah.”

Silence grows between us, but not an empty one. Oh no. It’s packed. It’s practically overflowing with all the words we haven’t spoken yet. Hell, it’s a hoarder room of every single word we can’t even lift yet.

Maine looks at my hand in his. He looks at my chipped black nails, and his thumb brushes the side of my index finger once, barely even there.

“I used to do them better,” he says, and my throat tries to choke off my air supply.

“Your technique was average at best.”

“Ouch. I was an artist and you know it.”

I pause. “You painted half of my skin.”

“You moved.”

“I was twelve,” I remind him.

“You were a menace,” he counters.