The food is surprisingly good—some kind of pasta with vegetables and meat that tastes homemade rather than institutional. Real cooking, the kind that speaks of care and attention rather than mass production.
“This place,” I say between bites, “it’s not what I expected when Ghost saidsafe house.”
“Guardian HRS has resources most people can’t imagine.” Skye adjusts her position. “We believe in taking care of our people properly. Medical care, real food, comfortable accommodations. Trauma recovery works better when the environment supports healing.”
“Trauma recovery.” The words taste strange in my mouth. “Is that what this is?”
“You’ve been through something most people never experience and hopefully never will.” Skye’s voice carries the gentle authority of someone who’s helped many people process similar experiences. “Combat situations, life-and-death decisions, extreme physical and emotional stress. Your brain needs time to integrate those experiences.”
“And until then?”
“You might have trouble sleeping. Hypervigilance—constantly checking for threats that aren’t there. Intrusive thoughts about what happened. Difficulty trusting that you’re truly safe.” She pauses, studying my face. “Sound familiar?”
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize she’s describing exactly how I’ve been feeling. The way I keep checking the windows, listening for footsteps that don’t come, replaying moments from our escape in vivid detail.
“It’s normal,” Skye continues. “And it gets better. Especially when you have someone to process it with.”
Her gaze moves meaningfully toward Cooper, and I understand what she’s not saying. That healing happens faster when you’re not alone. When you have someone who understands what you’ve been through because they were there with you.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask, deflecting from observations that hit too close to home.
“Emergency medicine? Years.” Skye checks her watch, a practical digital model that looks designed for field work. “I’ve seen a lot of operators come through here. Most of them areemotionally unavailable, professionally paranoid, and constitutionally incapable of admitting vulnerability.”
She nods toward Cooper. “That man let you help him back to his room when he would have crawled here on his hands and knees rather than accept assistance from his teammates. That tells me something significant about what you mean to him.”
Before I can respond, Cooper stirs. His eyes open slowly, pupils adjusting to the lamplight, consciousness returning in careful stages.
“Eliza?” His voice comes out rough with sleep.
“I’m here.” I squeeze his hand, and his fingers tighten around mine immediately. “How do you feel?”
“Like I got shot—twice and spent eighteen hours bleeding.” A ghost of a smile crosses his features. “But alive.”
“The important thing,” Skye observes, making notes on his chart. “Pain level, one to ten?”
“Four. Maybe five when I move wrong.”
“Good. That’s down from earlier.” She caps her pen, satisfied with his responses. “I’ll let you two talk. Call if you need anything. There’s an intercom button beside the bed.”
The door closes behind her, leaving us alone in the golden lamplight. Cooper’s eyes find mine, studying my face with the same intensity he brings to threat assessment.
“How are you doing?”
“Me?” I lean back and breathe out, then answer with as much honesty as possible. “Getting some rest. Eating real food. Processing what we’ve been through.”
“And how is that processing going?” His thumb traces circles across my knuckles. “Come here,” Cooper says, his good arm lifting slightly. “Let me hold you.”
I hesitate, eyeing the medical equipment and fresh bandages. “I don’t want you to pull stitches or ripanything out.”
“Come. Let me hold you. I promise not to do anything that’ll make Doc Summers yell at us.”
The request is simple, but it carries the weight of everything we’ve been through. Trust and vulnerability and the kind of intimacy that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with intent.
I stand carefully, then settle onto the bed beside him, mindful of his injuries. His good arm comes around me immediately, pulling me against his uninjured side, and the solid warmth of him chases away anxieties I didn’t realize I was carrying.
“Better,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Better,” I agree, my head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder where I can hear his heartbeat.
