Page 175 of Immune

“Down,” Fletcher says. Then he stops, jaw tightening. “Drainage channel gives cover. We can use it to bypass the road.”

“Look at you,” I say, voice thin. “You’re learning to narrate instead of command. How’s that character growth tasting? Because it’s horrifying on my end.”

His mouth twitches, only barely. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

We move for the drop, then a noise canister bellows from somewhere behind the garages. Not ours, and certainly not close enough to be a coincidence. Looks like Vector is setting the dead loose again.

The three Zeds in the channel jerk toward the sound, then toward us when Fletcher’s boot slips on loose gravel.

Everything happens quickly after that.

Fletcher fires twice and one Zed drops. Ewan vaults the edge and slides down the concrete slope with more grace than he has any right to even possess. Kaito tries to help lower the pilot, only to tear something in his side for the effort. He hisses through his teeth so softly I almost miss it.

I don’t miss it, though, which is a personal failing of mine.

Xeon appears suddenly beside me, not grabbing or hovering. Just… there. Then, quietly, he says, “The left side has footholds.”

I glance over and, sure enough, he’s right. The concrete has cracked near the edge, little ridges and exposed rebar making a rough ladder down the side. It’s safer than sliding. Slower, sure, but it’s safer on my knee.

I hate that he saw my knee, and that he didn’t mention it. It makes everything so much worse. Which is why I snap, “I know how to climb.”

His gaze remains on the drop rather than on me. “I know.”

No defense or apology. No wounded male pride bumbling into the conversation and shedding hair everywhere. Just two words. I know. Like he actually does know. Like he can see what I need and has no interest in owning the fact that he even sees it.

The channel below fills with noise then. Ewan slams a Zed into the wall while Fletcher lowers the pilot. Kaito covers the garages, blade in hand, still too pale, but still standing. Xeon steps down first onto the cracked footholds, testing them with his weight. One gives a little, so he shifts to another. Then he slips down two steps and waits.

Not with his hand out.

Not with his body blocking mine.

He’s simply below me, close enough that if I fall, he can reach out and catch me. But he’s far enough that choosing the route still feels more like mine than his, and my throat tightens at that. Because I’m ridiculous. And stupid. I mean, there are armed enemies nearby and dead things dragging their decaying bodies through drainage weeds, and my chest has picked this moment to make a weird emotional sound without my written or verbal permission.

I need to get my shit together.

I climb down after him, and the first foothold holds. The second bites into my boot. And the third slips. Pain sparks through my knee, and my body tilts sideways.

Xeon moves quickly. Quietly. His hand catches the concrete next to my hip, not me, bracing the space before I can fall into it. His other hand lands against the wall near my shoulder, creating a cage made of help without once touching.

My breath catches. For one second, I’m completely surrounded by him. Not trapped, just surrounded, and there’s a difference. A big one. And I hate that I even know it.

His scent slides through the chemical rot and blood. Frost and steel, clean enough to cut through the panic without making me feel cornered, and gentle enough that my Omega turns her stupid little head like an idiot deer in a field full of hunters.

“Take the next one lower,” he says softly. “It’s stronger.”

My fingers press into the concrete. “You always this irritatingly observant?”

“Sometimes I try not to be,” he says.

“Yet, here we are.”

“Yes.”

There’s no smile, not really, but something softens in his eyes. It makes my pulse trip and stumble harder than the shitty broken foothold did.

I force my boot to the lower ridge. It holds, so I descend the rest of the way without slipping again, which honestly feels like the biggest win I’ve had in days. A win I refuse to celebrate because celebrating is just a recipe for disaster.