Layla's eyes crack open to the dim light of the moon reflecting off of a river's surface, its glow fighting against the suffocating darkness. The pain in her arm is brutal and throbbing, dragging her back to full consciousness with a sharp gasp. The makeshift bandage is soaked through, dark with blood, and the air feels colder than before, biting against her damp skin.
August is crouched beside her, his expression shadowed but focused, hands already busy sterilizing a knife over the fire. The sight makes her stomach twist with a mix of dread and nausea.
"Stay awake," he orders, voice low but commanding. There's no room for argument.
Layla swallows, her throat dry and raw. "N-not going to sleep," she mutters, though the tremble in her voice gives her away.
"Sure." August doesn't waste time with reassurances. Instead, he digs into one of the duffel bags, pulling out a length of clean cloth. He turns back to her, eyes cold but steady. "Bite down on this," he says, shoving the cloth toward her. "This is gonna hurt."
Layla stares at the cloth, her breath coming fast and shallow. For a moment, she doesn't move, too overwhelmed by the pain and the cold and the iron scent of blood thick in the air. But the look in August's eyes—impatient, edged with something that might be concern—forces her to comply. She takes the cloth with trembling hands, biting down hard enough to make her jaw ache.
August doesn't waste a second. His fingers are efficient but surprisingly gentle as they peel back the soaked bandage, exposing the jagged wound beneath. Layla's vision blurs with tears as the air hits the injury, white-hot agony flaring up her arm. She bites down harder, the muffled groan escaping her throat barely audible over the rush of the nearby river.
The piece of shrapnel embedded in her arm glints under the firelight, wicked and dark with blood. August's eyes narrow, his jaw clenched tight.
"This is gonna take a minute," he warns, more to himself than her. The sterilized knife glints in his other hand, the blade steady despite the dim light. "Bite."
Layla barely has a second to process the words before the knife digs into her arm, the pain so sudden and blinding that her vision goes white. Her scream is muffled by the cloth, teeth grinding against the fabric as her whole body seizes. Her free hand digs into the dirt, fingers clawing at the ground for some kind of anchor.
"Hold still," August snaps, his voice a rough growl. "Almost there."
"Easy for you to say," she thinks bitterly, but the thought crumbles under the raw agony pulsing through her. The knife scrapes against the metal, sending fresh waves of pain crashing over her senses. Tears leak freely down her face, her breaths coming in short, ragged bursts.
And then—mercifully—the blade lifts away. There's a dull, sickening squelch as August finally pulls the shrapnel free, the blood-slick metal clattering to the dirt beside them. Layla's head falls back against the log, vision swimming, the cloth slipping from between her teeth as she gasps for air, each breath shaky and weak.
"Got it," August mutters, more to himself than her, already reaching for the antiseptic. He works quickly, cleaning the wound despite her strangled cries of pain, wrapping it in fresh bandages with a precision that seems almost surgical.
The worst of the agony ebbs into a dull, throbbing ache, but the world still spins dangerously around the edges of her vision. Layla's breath stutters, exhaustion crashing into her with the force of a freight train.
She blinks blearily, catching the flicker of firelight on August's face—his eyes narrowed with focus, lips pressed into a tight line. The sight is oddly grounding.
"...You didn't have to," she mumbles, voice hoarse and slurred.
August snorts but says nothing, securing the bandage with a tight knot. His hands are stained with her blood, but they remain steady, movements precise and unflinching.
Layla's eyes flutter, heavy with exhaustion and pain, but she presses on, words slurring together. "I-I mean it… you could've just… left me…"
His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering beneath his skin. "You saved my life, Layla," he says calmly, but there's an edge to his voice, something raw and unspoken. He busies himself with gathering the bloodied scraps of fabric, avoiding her gaze.
Layla's eyes flicker, heavy with exhaustion, but she catches the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands move a bit too quickly. "Didn't… really think I did," she mumbles, the words slurred and half-hearted.
"Well, you did," August replies, tone clipped. He keeps his focus on the task at hand, fingers working efficiently despite the blood smearing his palms. "So stop talking and rest before you pass out."
She tries to scoff, but it comes out weak and breathless, her eyelids drooping. "You… are so frustrating," she mutters, a ghost of a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.
"Yeah, I've been called worse," August says dryly, but his eyes flick to her for just a second, the hard edges softening ever so slightly. "Sleep."
Layla doesn't have the energy to argue, the darkness dragging her down. But even as consciousness slips away, there's a strange comfort in the roughness of his voice, the steady presence beside her.
The fire crackles softly, and for a while, it drowns out the chill of the night and the distant threats lurking in the dark.
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Layla's eyes snap open, her heart pounding against her ribcage. For a moment, disoriented and caught between nightmares and reality, all she can see is darkness. The crackling of the fire draws her back, grounding her senses. The air is cold, biting against her exposed skin, but the warmth radiating from the flames keeps it at bay.
She shifts slightly, wincing as pain flares up her injured arm. The bandages are snug but not suffocating, a makeshift job that's surprisingly steady. Blinking, Layla makes out August's silhouette a few feet away, seated with his back against a rock. His eyes are half-lidded, but the subtle tension in his posture tells her he's not asleep—just listening, always on guard.
"...You're awake," August states flatly, not turning to look at her. His voice is low, almost begrudging, as if admitting he's been keeping watch all this time is somehow embarrassing.
Layla lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her shoulders sagging. "How long…?" Her throat feels like sandpaper, the words rasping.
"About ten minutes," he replies, finally glancing over. His eyes glint in the firelight, sharp and assessing. "You were out longer before that, though. How's the arm?"
"Hurts," she admits, grimacing. "But I'm good now."
August shifts, grabbing a canteen and tossing it her way with unceremonious accuracy. Layla barely catches it with her good hand, the motion making her wince.
"Drink. You're dehydrated," he orders, already turning his gaze back to the darkness beyond the firelight.
Layla unscrews the cap, taking a few shaky gulps, the cool water soothing the rawness in her throat. For a while, neither of them speaks, the silence hanging heavy but not unbearable.
She lowers the canteen, eyes flickering to the bloodstains smeared on August's sleeves—her blood. Her chest tightens with something unspoken, something she can't quite put into words. "Thanks," she mumbles, voice small but earnest.
August doesn't respond at first, his jaw working as if he's chewing over his words. After five seconds, he says, "You're welcome. Just focus on not bleeding out."
Layla snorts softly, the sound weak but genuine. "Wow. You really suck at this 'dad' thing."
He snorts back, almost amused. "Good. Never planned on being good at it."
Layla sits up carefully, mindful of her arm. "So, what now?"
August pushes himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his hands. "We're leaving," he states, tone leaving no room for argument. He moves to Layla's side, eyes scanning her face with a critical edge. "Can you stand?"
Layla grimaces but nods, trying to sit up. Pain flares in her arm, drawing a sharp inhale through her teeth. Before she can sway too far, August's hands are already there, steadying her shoulders with a firm but careful grip.
"Easy," he mutters, adjusting his hold to support her weight. His eyes flick briefly to her bandaged arm, ensuring the bleeding hasn't worsened. Satisfied, he shifts, one arm looping around her back to help her up. "Let me do the heavy lifting."
Layla groans, but doesn't fight it. "Guess I don't have a choice," she mumbles, leaning against him more than she wants to admit.
"You don't," he says bluntly, guiding her forward with methodical precision.
August releases her once she's steady enough to stand on her own, though he keeps a cautious eye on her balance. Without a word, he turns to the campfire, crouching to snuff out the flames with a handful of dirt, grinding the embers under his boot until only faint wisps of smoke remain. The darkness creeps in, cold and suffocating without the fire's glow, but August doesn't falter.
He moves swiftly, grabbing the duffel bags and Layla's book bag, slinging them over his shoulders with ease. His gaze sweeps the area—sharp, assessing, never lingering in one place too long. Once satisfied, he returns to Layla's side, the bags settling with a dull thud.
"Let's go," he says, voice low but firm. He doesn't wait for an answer, shifting one of the straps to her book bag and offering it to her. "We've stayed too long already."