Page 133 of Heart Over Heels

That settled it.

I climbed on, trying to make room, but the fit was awkward. Our knees knocked, his shins brushed mine, and both of us adjusted and readjusted until I finally reached out and caught his legs, gripping them firmly enough that my thumbs dented the skin above the lace cuffs of his stockings.

“Do you mind if I…”

He pushed up, braced on his elbows and looked down at where my hands held him, then he shook his head.

I slid forward, pulling him in until I could drape his legs over my thighs. Once we were thoroughly entwined, he settled back against the gas tank with his eyes half-lidded. I kept my hands pressed against his smooth brown skin, stroking absently.

A minute or so passed, then Darby rolled his head to the side and gave me a soft, sleepy smile.

“You’re wearing shorts.”

I glanced down at the shiny metal and molded plastic of my prosthetic. “Oh… yeah.”

“I’m glad,” he said.

“Why?”

He pushed up again, inclining to meet me face to face. “Because it’s you. All of you.”

A grimace tugged at my mouth. “It is, arguably, not all of me.”

Darby nodded, then he too looked at my leg. “How did it happen?” he asked. “Will you tell me now?”

I sat back while his warmth continued to soak through my palms. Talking about this always felt like gripping barbed wire. In therapy, they’d assured me that it would get easier with time. I wasn’t sure how much would be enough.

“I was on deployment,” I said finally. “Middle East. Hot as hell, sand everywhere it shouldn’t be. I was out on patrol with some of the guys from my squad.”

Darby’s tail looped around my leg as he watched me patiently.

“We hit an IED.” The memory flashed—bright, loud, and fast. “It happens more than you’d think. The Humvee flipped, and we all got tossed around. Couple of guys got thrown clear out the back. Glass everywhere. People were hurt.”

I drew a steadying breath as Darby eased himself upright, leaning forward until we were both sitting and his hands were holding mine.

“I’m… Iwasa medic,” I continued. “You know that.”

He dipped his chin in affirmation.

“I was supposed to help them,” I said. “But I was pinned. My leg got crushed.” My stomach tightened. “I couldn’t move. Couldn’t get free.”

Darby’s forehead creased, but he didn’t interrupt.

“The guy next to me—Kelm—he was bleeding bad. Arterial. And all I could think was that if I didn’t do something, he’d bleed out right there beside me. I could barely reach him. Managed to tourniquet his arm so he didn’t lose it.”

I looked down at our joined hands and Darby’s manicured fingers laced between mine. I’d told this story so many times I could recite it in my sleep, but it always felt clinical. Detached. A report, not a memory.

Saying it now with him touching me, looking at me, made it real in a way it had never been. I wasn’t a patient here. Not a body in a bed or a name on an intake sheet.

Just a person, like Darby said. A body with a mind and a soul.

After a few seconds, Darby’s voice drifted out, hesitant. “That’s why you got the medals?”

“What medals?”

Blush tinted his cheeks, and his eyes darted away. “The ones in Molly’s closet,” he said. “I was being nosy, and I saw. But you shouldn’t hide them. Or yourself.” His gaze returned to mine. “You’re a hero, Mercy.”

A laugh escaped me, though his statement wasn’t funny at all. “I’m not… Darby, I was trapped in a damn truck, holding pressure on a guy’s arm. That’s not?—”