Page 73 of Worshiping Faith

“Zachs?” I call after him.

He pauses, glancing back.

How do I say it?

That watching him disappear beneath the waves almost gutted me. That for a second, I thought I lost him, and I didn’t even know what that would mean for me. That it meant something.

“You about killed me when you jumped off this fucking thing,” I say.

It’s all I have.

Something flickers across his face. A twitch in his jaw, a slight shift in his stance. He sees it, what I can’t say yet.

“How’d you see that from the block?” he teases, the smirk sliding back into place like armor.

I roll my eyes, pushing past the lump in my throat. “Fuck you. Get the water.”

“Rude,” he drawls, grinning as he disappears down the hall.

I exhale, turning back to Jinx.

Wilkes is watching me.

I don’t meet his gaze. Not yet.

What do I say?It’s going to be okayis a fucking lie.

“You’re right next door to him,” Wilkes says, his voice low. Like he can read my thoughts.

Perfect.

I brush Jinx’s hand, just a whisper of contact.Too cold. Too weak.It makes my stomach twist. “I’m in the next room,” I tell him softly. “If you need anything. Day or night. Just call my name.”

Jinx barely moves, but I catch the faintest nod. “Solid.” His voice is wrecked, the word barely audible.

I swallow hard. Dax, Zachs, Trip, Wilkes, all pushing forward, barely stopping, barely breathing, and Jinx barely holding on. And me?

I turn to Wilkes, needing something to do. “I’ll leave food and water when Zachs gets back,” I murmur and move toward the door.

Wilkes catches my gaze. Holds it. “See your room?”

Dare I? If I sit on the bed, I might not get up.

“Sure,” I say.

His hand settles on my back, light but firm.

It feels good.

A steadying touch. A quiet reassurance. But also... something else.

We walk the few short steps down the hall. Tight. Close. Stifling. I’m still adjusting to the ship, everything feels wrong in here. Too many turns. Too many places to disappear.

I glance inside my room. It’s like Jinx’s, but not.

The cot is the same. The desk, the locker. But there are extra blankets, one that actually looks soft.

I touch it, fingers curling into the fabric. Warm. Not prison-issued scratchy. Not stiff military regulation. A small comfort. One I don’t deserve.