Page 7 of Echos and Empires (After #3)

FOUR

The rhythmic thunk of the knife against the cutting board provided a soothing metronome as Bash chopped vegetables.

He found solace in these mundane tasks, the simple act of preparing a meal for his family providing a momentary escape from the chaos of the world outside.

Yes, it was stable on the island, but it still wasn’t what he’d deem a normal life—but very close to it.

Steam rose from the pot on the stove, filling the air with the comforting aroma of his unit-famous stew. It had gotten the gang through many long trips with limited supplies before they met Emma, and it had quickly become a staple on nights he did cooking rotation since finding safety.

As he worked, Bash couldn’t help but think about what could come next with such a peaceful existence. Against all odds, the unit and Emma had not only found something incredibly rare, they made it work.

The relationship shouldn’t have worked for Bash.

Not just because he’d lost Brooke, but because the man he’d been before the bombs would have killed another man for touching the woman he loved.

Now it provided him with peace and comfort knowing there were five of them who would move heaven and hell to keep her safe.

Not that we’re great at it , he snorted, the knife aggressively chopping through a carrot.

An oddly familiar, but still unfamiliar sound broke through his thoughts. It reminded him of Ranger when the poor dog had to vomit. The sound came again, louder this time.

Bash tensed, the knife stilling in his hand as worry spiked through him.

Emma. Not Ranger.

His instinct was to rush to her immediately, to gather her in his arms and soothe whatever made her sick. But he hesitated, not wanting to overreact. People got sick, it happened. It didn’t necessarily mean anything serious, and pouncing on her while she was puking likely wouldn’t make her happy.

And yet, Bash couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in his gut.

Emma hadn’t been sick a day since he’d met her.

She didn’t complain about discomfort or even her fear often.

Even when struggling with what happened with Marcus, she’d never complained until he pushed her during a training session.

If she was gagging audibly, it was possible she was struggling.

Assuming it’s not Ranger, you moron . That dog ate everything, including what he shouldn’t. He could be wrong about who it is.

Another gag, this time followed by footsteps, very human footsteps, was all the confirmation he needed that it was Emma.

Setting the knife down, Bash turned off the stove and moved swiftly toward the living room. He tried to tamp down the concern that rose like bile up his throat, but it was a losing battle. When it came to Emma, Bash’s protective instincts were always on high alert.

He pushed through the archaic swinging door. She wasn’t in the living room, but the telltale sounds of more vomiting came from around the corner, setting him off to find her before she got sick alone again.

He found her in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet, her curly brown hair falling like a curtain around her face, blocking her expression from his view.

Bash’s heart clenched at the sight. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to take on her discomfort himself.

But he knew Emma—knew she hated to appear vulnerable.

So instead, he leaned against the doorframe, taking on as casual a pose as he could, even as his eyes searched for a way to see her past her hair.

“You alright?” he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

Emma looked up at him, her hair shifting out of her face to reveal her striking hazel eyes were watery and rimmed with red. She tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice raspy. “Just felt a little nauseous, that’s all.”

Bash wasn’t convinced. He knew Emma well enough and knew she would downplay any illness or injury. It was one of the things he loved about her, her strength and resilience. But it also worried him, the thought that she might be suffering and not let him help.

Still, he didn’t want to push. Emma was stubborn, and pressuring her would only make her withdraw like she had a few times on the road. So, Bash simply nodded, holding out a hand to help her up. “Why don’t you come sit down?” he suggested gently. “I’ll make you some tea, settle your stomach.”

Emma hesitated for a moment, then took his hand, allowing him to guide her out of the bathroom. He should have let her brush her teeth, but his focus was on helping her rest. Doing his best to focus on the warmth of Emma’s hand in his, he pushed down the worry that threatened to drown him.

She just ate something funny.

Whatever this was, they would face it together. Just like they faced everything in this harsh new world. As a team. As a family.

Uncertain which room to move to, he took her to her room, not letting go of her hand when he guided her to the edge of the bed. There was a redness in her eyes, but not from crying, from puking.

So at least she wasn’t so upset she caused herself to puke.

Brooke had done that one, when her father died.

Damn it, Bash.

“I’m fine, Bash,” she said before he could even ask, her voice firm despite its rasping edge. “Really. It’s just a little nausea. I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me. Too many new foods here.”

Bash’s brow furrowed. He knew this tone, this stubborn insistence on strength in the face of any adversity. Bash quickly wondered if her resilience and strength weren’t both positive and negative qualities because this barrier she put up, even with him, even after everything, frustrated him.

“Em,” he said softly, moving to sit beside her on the bed. “You don’t have to pretend with me. If you’re not feeling well?—”

“I’ll be fine,” Emma interrupted, a hint of impatience in her voice. “We have enough to worry about without you hovering over me for a little stomach bug.”

Bash suppressed a sigh. She was right, of course. Somewhere beyond the island was a destroyed world, one that could find them at any minute. And yet...he wasn’t ready to back off, he’d just change tactics.

“I’m not hovering,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “But you’re my partner, Em. In everything. Your well-being is always going to be my concern.”

Emma’s expression softened slightly at that, the hard line of her mouth relaxing into something almost like a smile. “I know,” she said quietly. “And I appreciate it, Bash. I do. But I promise, I’m okay. It’s probably just something I ate.”

Bash nodded, not entirely convinced but willing to let it go for now. He knew pushing would only make Emma retreat further into herself. The best he could do was be here, ready to support her however she needed.

“Alright,” he said, standing up and holding out a hand to her. “But you’re taking it easy today. No arguments.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of fondness in the gesture. “Yes, sir,” she said sarcastically, but she took his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

Bash couldn’t help but smile at that, at the spark of the Emma he knew and loved. She wasn’t beaten, not by this, not by anything. She was a fighter, through and through.

But as he watched her make her way slowly out of the room, Bash couldn’t quite shake the unease that settled in his gut. In a world where medicine was in short hard and god-only-knew what grew out on the island, anything could be more dangerous than it seemed.

He tried to push the worry aside, to focus on the tasks at hand. There was always work to be done, always some crisis that needed attending. He couldn’t let himself get distracted, couldn’t let his concern for Emma overshadow his responsibilities to the group.

He moved past her, back into the kitchen before calling out. “Fine enough to chop? You love this stew, ‘bout time you help cook it.”

“I think I’ll pass,” she called out, her voice weaker than usual further hinting she didn’t feel well.

He snatched a pot off the drainboard and filled it with water before setting it next to the larger pot. “Starting that tea, now.” He twisted the knob, and the flame ignited.

Picking up the knife, Bash went back to work, peeling the potatoes, trying to focus on anything but how sick Emma might be.

His thoughts drifted to the pallor of her skin, the fatigue in her eyes.

He told himself it was probably nothing, just a passing bug as she’d said.

But the tightness in his chest remained, a constant reminder of how much he had to lose, how precarious their hold on this life really was.

Lost in chopping and terrible thoughts, he almost missed the gurgle of the boiling tea water.

“Coming with tea,” he called as he shut the burner off and grabbed a mug from the cabinet, pouring the water and grabbing a packet of what he thought might be green tea from the box at the back of the corner.

“No, I’ll come in.” She was through the archaic door that separated the rooms like something from the fifties.

Bash watched Emma closely as she settled into a chair at the kitchen table, reaching out for the mug and tea packet.

Some of the color had returned to her cheeks, but he could still see the shadows under her eyes, the slight tremble in her fingers.

He wanted to ask how she was feeling, but he knew she wouldn’t appreciate the hovering.

“Have you given any thought to what you might want to do, now that the farmers have things under control?”