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Saint studies the wound with a deeper focus than I see in most men, even Poet. Then he meets Poet’s eyes and tells him the truth. “None of us can stitch this.”

Poet’s brow furrows.

For the first time in a while, I think he might speak. But Saint continues before he can. “Only Folk can. So if you really won’t go to the hospital, the decision is his as much as it’s yours.”

Another brutal silence descends.

Saint backs up and goes to Folk.

Cam and Rubi drift sideways to coordinate whatever they’re doing to have so many of their people here.

Finally, it is just Poet and I, and I lead him to the upturned apple crates where we usually eat our dinner, our breakfast, and random meals when Aras decides he is hungry.

Am I hungry?

I don’t know.

As though he can read my mind, Poet checks my watch. “You need sugar.”

“You need medical care,” I counter as I fish the sweets he bought me from my pocket and stuff them in my mouth. “Will you let Folk stitch you?”

Poet stretches his legs out, wincing at the movement, tanned limbs marred with more bruises and scrapes. I brace myself for a negative answer, but he surprises me. “Yeah.”

I let out a relieved breath and squat in front of him, my hands on his knees. “I am sorry for how we left things before this happened.”

Confusion mars Poet’s exhausted gaze. He thinks on it a moment, then his lips twitch a little. “Do I strike you as someone who’d get angry with you for articulating your feelings?”

“I didn’t articulate my feelings.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. I meant to tell you I was scared because I am in love with you, not that I thought you would hurt Aras. I didn’t even mean that the first time I said it, so why it happened twice, I have no idea.”

Poet blinks.

I don’t. My thoughts and feelings are finally coming together, and despite the smoke in the air, and the exhaustion weighing us both down, I’ve never seen myself more clearly. “Aš tave myliu—I love you, and I should’ve told you when we walked home together and before I let you drive into a wildfire without me. I’ll regret it forever that I didn’t.”

Dawn broke a while ago, a different light to what we know. But even in the grey, Poet’s eyes are so blue. So alive as they shine with emotion.

He draws breath to speak.

A throat clears behind me.

Folk.

The moment breaks, and I’m strangely okay with it. For the first time in hours, we’re not running out of time. Whatever Poet was about to say will exist when his injuries are treated and he has found some peace with the earth.

We have survived the worst of this.

The rest can wait. I can wait.

I rise and move behind him, one hand settling on the back of his neck—the newfound calmness I feel isn’t enough to convince me to let him go entirely.

Folk ventures closer and gets low to peel back the blood-soaked dressing Mal has applied to Poet’s flank. He studies the wound with detached concentration. For a moment, I forget he is Poet’s brother and see nothing but a soldier assessing a casualty. Then I see the subtle tremor in his hands and I know how this ends before he does.

Before he draws back, shaking his head, and uttering an approximation of the same words Mal did. “No.”

Poet flinches.