Page 139 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Broken arm,” Dr Hart said, fingers moving efficiently. “Possible internal bleeding. Concussion, almost certainly. He needs surgery I can't do here.”

“He'll live?” My voice didn't sound like mine.

Dr Hart looked at me, and something in her expression softened. “He's young and strong and too stubborn to die. Yes, Sergeant. He'll live.”

The relief was a physical thing, buckling my knees. I caught myself on the doorframe, breathing hard, and felt tears burn hot and sudden in my eyes.

Art was alive. Broken and bleeding and barely conscious, but alive.

Above us, the drone of aircraft engines faded. The second wave, confused by killed lights and moved markers, dropping their payload somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn't here. Somewhere that wasn't Art.

We'd done it. He'd done it. Cracked the code, saved the estate, nearly died in the process but lived anyway.

I made my way to the settee where they'd laid him, pushed past the medics who tried to stop me, and took his good hand in both of mine.

“Tom?” Art's voice was slurred, barely conscious.

“I'm here.”

“Did it work? The decoys?”

“It worked. Bombs fell on empty fields. We're safe.”

“Good.” His eyes fluttered. “That's good. I did something useful.”

“You did something brilliant.” My voice broke. “You saved everyone, Art. You saved me.”

“Only fair.” His fingers squeezed mine weakly. “You saved me first.”

I leaned down, pressed my forehead to his, and let myself believe that we were going to be all right. That we'd survived the worst the war could throw at us, and whatever came next, we'd face it together.

“I love you,” I said quietly.

“Love you too.” Art's smile was barely there, but real. “Now stop crying and let me sleep.”

“Bossy even when you're half dead.”

“Someone has to be.”

I laughed, wet and broken, and held onto his hand while the fires burned down outside and the all-clear sounded and the estate began the slow process of putting itself back together.

We'd made it. Against all odds, against everything trying to tear us apart, we'd made it.

And I was never letting him go again.

TWENTY-SIX

THE CODE THAT SAVED US

ART

My arm throbbed with a deep, grinding ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat, and when I tried to shift position the world tilted sideways, nausea rolling through me in waves. I forced my eyes open, squinting against light that felt far too bright, and tried to piece together where I was and why everything hurt.

White ceiling. Antiseptic smell. The creak of metal bed frames and the low murmur of voices somewhere to my left.

The infirmary.

Memory crashed back in fragments: bombs falling, the ceiling of Hut X collapsing, Tom's face white with terror as he pulled me from the wreckage. The words I'd said to him in the library, raw and desperate.I love you.And his response, just as broken, just as true.