Chris sat propped in the chair where the physicians had left him, IV out now, a bandage taped neatly to the crook of his arm. The rush of adrenaline had long since burned off, leaving only a low ache in his muscles and a faint tremor in his hands. Killian stood a pace behind, still and watchful, the violet shawl draped over one hand catching the sterile light. He hadn't said much beyond a few dry observations, but his presence felt like a wall between Chris and everything else in the room.
The door whispered open and every white coat in the medical wing straightened. Dax stepped in without breaking stride. The dark-spiced scent of him hit before his shadow did, the hum of command following him like a second skin. His violet gaze flicked once to Killian, who inclined his head, then fixed on Chris.
"You're done here," Dax said quietly, already moving toward him. "Come."
Chris pushed himself up, a little too quickly. "I can walk."
