Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance by Jasinda Wilder Page B

assisting. We don ’ t need words, Ollie and me. We just know. I know how he works, and what he needs. He knows I won ’ t flinch, won ’ t fail. Won ’ t hesitate, won ’ t get sick, won ’ t get tired. You don ’ t get to do any of that until after it ’ s over. Then you can have your meltdown.  
    And we all have them.  
    The next eleven hours are a frenzy of blood and stitches and severed limbs. There ’ s a skirmish going on between sects to the north of us, dozens are wounded, and all of them coming our way. By far, it ’ s the worst it ’ s ever been. Since I ’ ve been here, at least.  
    Of the thirty-eight victims that come through our tent, five die and seven more probably won ’ t last the night.
    Finally, in the smallest hours of the night, Dominique sends us away. My feet drag, and I stumble. Oliver is barely functioning. He ’ s been awake and working for forty-eight hours straight. Not stopping for anything, not until the last patient has been given the best possible care. I hang onto him, and he onto me. We ’ re leaning on each other, supporting each other.  
    We find a spot to lie down, in the bed of an old, battered Nissan pickup used to transport supplies across the station. We lie down side by side in the bed, staring up at the stars. Just breathing. I have that dizzy feeling you get when you finally stop moving after being in motion for endless hours. Like after a day at a theme park, when you close your eyes and it feels like you ’ re still on a rollercoaster. Like that, but infinitely worse. Your hands want to stitch, compress, apply pressure, wrap bandages. Your eyes see wounds, pleading eyes, you hear whimpers. You see it, feel it, hear it even after you ’ re done.
    Ollie lifts a hip, digs in his back pocket, comes up with a flattened soft-pack of Camel Lights, and a blue lighter. Puts one to his lips, lights it, drags.  
    That ’ s when I know he ’ s struggling. So far, Ollie hasn ’ t had to light up, yet.  
    He breathes out the smoke, and it ’ s a shuddery, frail sound. “Jesus Christ, that was bad.”  
    “Yeah.”  
    He hands me the cigarette, and we share it in silence.  
    When he lights a second, I know he ’ s working up to something.
    “Nights like this, I hate it here. I hate people. I hate what we do. I hate that people can hate each other for no reason, hate each other so badly they ’ ll just…butcher one another like that. Over what? I don ’ t even know. Beliefs? Traditions? Politics?” I watch him put the cigarette to his lips, watch the orange cherry tremble in the darkness. I see his fingers shake in the dim glow as he drags on it.  
    “It ’ s so senseless.” I don ’ t know what else to say. I ’ m only good at comfort when I ’ m in the thick of things. Otherwise, I get…tongue-tied.
    He gives me a drag, takes the butt back, and flicks it away. Lifts up on an elbow. Starlight illuminates his beautiful face, gorgeous even when haggard, exhausted, done in.  
    My heart thumps wildly as he looks down at me.  
    “I ’ m gonna kiss you now. Okay?” His eyes are intense, piercing.
    I just nod, reach for him. Pull him down to me, and we kiss.  
    That kiss, that ’ s when I know.
    He ’ s it.
    He ’ s my only.
    When he pulls away, breaking the kiss, I can see he felt that, too.
    “I really, really like kissing you.” There ’ s a twang to his voice I ’ ve never noticed until now.  
    “Probably because you ’ re so damn good at it,” I say.  
    “Lots of practice.”  
    “Not supposed to admit that, I don ’ t think.” I grin up at him, though, because I like this banter. It takes my mind off things.
    “Oops.”  
    “Where are you from, Ollie?”  
    He lies back down beside me. Twines his fingers in mine. “Heard that twang, did you?”  
    “I caught a little something, yeah.”  
    “Ardmore, Oklahoma. It ’ s right on the border of Texas.” He pretends to tip an imaginary hat. “I ’ m a real-deal cowboy,