She closes the laptop and moves closer, close enough that her vanilla scent cuts through the metallic smell of blood and the musty scent of concrete. She touches my forehead, checking for fever.
“You’re running warm, but not dangerously so.” Her fingers brush across my temple, gentle but sure. “When’s the last time you let someone take care of you?”
The question hits harder than expected. When was the last time? Before Syria, maybe, but even then, I was the protector, the one who handled problems, who stayed strong while others needed support. That’s what operators do—we take care of others, not the other way around.
“Don’t need taking care of.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Her hand moves to my good shoulder, applying steady pressure that makes the pain in the damaged one more bearable. “I asked when it last happened, not whether you needed it.”
“Long time.”
“How long?”
She’s not going to let this go. Her academic persistence is applied to personal questions—the same thoroughness she brings to decoding ancient languages is now focused on decoding me.
“Five years. Maybe six.”
“Before your team was killed.”
Not a question. She’s connecting data points, understanding that losing my team meant more than professional failure. It meant cutting off every connection that made me human instead of just operational.
“Cooper.” Her voice drops, becomes softer without losing its certainty. “What happened to them wasn’t your fault either.”
The words hit. How does she know what I don’t want to discuss? How does she find the wounds that never healed and press against them with the ability to not only make me share, but also want to share those pieces of myself with her?
“You don’t know what happened.”
“No, I don’t.” Her hand remains steady on my shoulder. “But I know you. And I know you would blame yourself forsomething that was beyond your control. If it’s not too painful, can you share with me what happened?”
“I was overwatch. Sniper position. Watched them walk into an ambush and couldn’t do anything to stop it. Too many hostiles, not enough bullets. Had to watch my team die while I tried to pick off targets I couldn’t reach fast enough.”
“That’s not failure, Cooper. That’s impossible mathematics.” Her voice carries quiet certainty. “One sniper against multiple hostiles—you couldn’t have saved them all. No one could have.”
She’s absolving me of the responsibility I’ve carried for years, but absolution only works if you believe you deserve it.
“If I’d been better?—”
“If you’d been psychic.” Her hand tightens on my shoulder. “You’re not responsible for information you didn’t have. Just like I’m not responsible for Phoenix existing before I found it.”
It’s parallel reasoning. She’s drawing connections between my guilt and hers, showing me how irrational my self-blame is by reflecting it back through her situation.
Smart woman. Too fucking smart.
“Why does it matter to you?” I ask. “Whether I blame myself for old missions?”
“Because.” She pauses, as if considering her words carefully. “Because I care about you, and I don’t want someone I care about to carry guilt that isn’t his to carry.”
The simple admission hangs in the air between us. She said it matter-of-factly, the way she might announce a linguistic discovery or tactical observation. No dramatic buildup, no requests for reciprocation. Just truth, offered without conditions.
“Eliza—”
“You don’t have to say anything.” She reopens the laptop, her fingers moving across the keyboard with renewed focus. “I just needed you to know. In case we don’t make it out of this.”
In case we don’t make it out.
The tactical part of my brain starts calculating survival odds, escape routes, and resource management. But another part—the part that’s been dormant since Syria—focuses on the woman beside me, the way she’s trying to protect me by not demanding emotional responses I might not be ready to give.
She’s giving me space to process. Time to think. The same patience she showed when teaching me that her verbal processing wasn’t just chatter, but a methodology.
