Page 141 of The Words Beneath the Noise

I subsided, hating how weak I felt, how useless. My arm was broken, my head was scrambled, and I was stuck in a bed while the war continued without me. While Tom was out there somewhere, probably covered in dust and blood, probably furious with me for being so reckless.

“When can I see...” I stopped, reconsidered. Dr Hart knew. I was almost certain she knew about Tom and me, had seen the way we looked at each other, but saying it aloud felt dangerous even now. “When can I have visitors?”

Dr Hart's expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Sergeant Hale has been by twice already. I sent him away both times to get himself cleaned up and rest. He looked half-dead on his feet.” She paused, studied me with those sharp, assessing eyes. “He'll be back. That man's devotion is written all over him.”

Heat crawled up my neck. I wanted to deny it, to deflect, but what was the point? Dr Hart had pulled me from enough anxietyattacks and patched enough of Tom's scraped knuckles to know exactly what we were to each other.

“When he comes back,” I said carefully, “will you let him in?”

“For a short visit. You need rest more than conversation.” Dr Hart made another note, then set the clipboard aside. “You did well last night, Mr Pembroke. What you accomplished with those codes... it mattered. Don't let the guilt convince you otherwise.”

She moved on to check Ruth's bandages, leaving me staring at the ceiling and trying to parse how she'd known exactly what I was thinking.

Time moved strangely after that. Noor woke, stumbled to my bedside, hugged me one-armed with her face pressed against my shoulder until her breathing steadied. Ruth dozed fitfully, waking every so often to glare at the ceiling like it had personally offended her. A steady trickle of staff came through—Mrs Parker with blankets and murmured reassurances, a junior officer with preliminary casualty lists, someone from Art's section asking about files and codes until Dr Hart chased them out with a scathing look.

And through it all, I waited. Watched the door. Catalogued every footstep in the corridor, every voice that wasn't Tom's, every minute that stretched longer without him.

Maybe he wasn't coming. Maybe last night had been too much, too raw, and in the cold light of day he'd realised I was more trouble than I was worth. A liability. A responsibility he'd never asked for.

The door opened again.

Tom stood there, and my heart lurched so hard it hurt.

He looked wrecked. Uniform still dusty and stained, face streaked with grime and exhaustion, hands hanging loose at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them. But his eyes locked onto me with an intensity that stole the breath from my lungs.

Dr Hart intercepted him before he could take more than two steps. “Sergeant Hale. I'll allow fifteen minutes, no more. Mr Pembroke needs rest.”

“Understood, ma'am.” Tom's voice was rough, scraped raw, but steady.

Dr Hart nodded, ushered Noor and the nurse out with her, and pulled a curtain round my bed for privacy. Not complete privacy, anyone could hear through the thin fabric, but enough. Enough to pretend, for a few minutes, that the world outside didn't exist.

Tom moved to my bedside, pulled up the chair Noor had vacated, and sat down heavily. For a long moment he just stared at me, jaw working like he was trying to find words and failing.

“You look better than you did last night,” he finally said.

“You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted.” Tom's hands clenched on his knees. “Haven't slept. Can't. Every time I close my eyes I see that bloody hut collapsing and I—” His voice cracked. He stopped, swallowed hard, tried again. “You could have been killed.”

There it was. The anger simmering under his exhaustion, the terror that had been festering since he'd pulled me from the rubble. I'd known it was coming, had braced for it, but hearing the raw pain in his voice still felt like a punch to the chest.

Tom leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and the look he gave me was equal parts fury and heartbreak. “You stayed in a bombing target because you had to finish a bloody puzzle.”

“It wasn't a puzzle.” The words came out sharper than I'd intended, defensive and brittle. “It was intelligence that savedlives. My work diverted half that raid, Tom. If I'd run when the sirens went off?—”

“You'd be alive and whole and I wouldn't have spent three hours convinced I'd lost you.” Tom's voice rose, then caught, and he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Christ, Art. When I got to that hut and saw the blood, I thought?—”

“I know what you thought.” My throat was tight, eyes burning. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I scared you, but I can't apologise for staying. That's what I am. That's what I do. I fight with this.” I tapped my temple with my good hand, the gesture sharp and frustrated. “This is my rifle, my scope, my battlefield. If I don't use it, then what's the point of me?”

“The point of you?” Tom stared at me like I'd spoken another language. “The point of you is that you're alive. That you exist. Not what you can do for the bloody war effort.”

“That's easy for you to say. You've got value beyond this place. You're a soldier, a protector. When the war ends, you'll have skills, purpose.” My voice was shaking now, all the fear and inadequacy spilling out in an ugly rush. “What do I have? A brain that's good for codes and a body that falls apart if someone shouts too loud. If I'm not useful, if I'm not solving the unsolvable, then I'm just... broken.”

“You're not broken.” Tom's hands shot out, grabbing my good arm with enough force to ground me. “Listen to me, Arthur Pembroke. You are not broken. You're brilliant and stubborn and so bloody brave it terrifies me, but you are not just your work.”

“Then what am I?” The question came out small, childish. “When this is over and there are no more codes to break, what's left?”

Tom's grip tightened. His eyes were bright, fierce, and when he spoke his voice cracked with the weight of everything we'd been holding back.