I retrace again, slower this time. Stop. Start over.
My gaze skims the components, lingering on those that fit too perfectly. He wouldn’t leave the fail-safe there. He’d bury it under arrogance, in plain sight, but wearing a smirk.
The realization hits in a rush that feels almost physical. Not the obvious path. Not the logical progression. He’d tuck it somewhere no one disciplined would ever look—inside the piece that looks decorative, redundant, a flourish meant to distract.
“There,” I whisper, pulse spiking. “I see you.”
I hold my hand out, palm up. “Wire cutters.”
Flint hands them to me, and I position them on the wire that shouldn't matter —the one most EOD techs would leave for last. I squeeze the handles slowly, feeling the resistance of the wire, and cut.
The timer display flickers. My heart stops.
Then it stabilizes, and I see the backup circuit go dark on my scanner. The fail-safe is disabled.
"The bastard," I whisper, almost admiring despite myself. "He hid it in plain sight, betting I'd overthink it."
Now just the primary trigger remains, and this one I know cold.
It's my design, unchanged by Greer's modifications except for being wired to a larger charge. I work through the disarmament sequence I developed over years of testing and refinement, each cut precise, each connection verified before moving to the next.
Time seems to slow and stretch, the world narrowing to just my hands and the device and the steady breathing of the man behind me.
Final wire. Final cut.
The timer goes dark.
The device lies silent—dead, harmless.
For a moment, I can’t move. Then the tremor starts in my hands, adrenaline bleeding out of my system until all that’s left is the hollow thud of my pulse.
Flint’s hands find my shoulders, firm and steady, the heat of them cutting through the cold shock settling in my skin. The contact shouldn’t matter as much as it does, but the moment he touches me, everything inside me shifts. Relief, exhaustion, something fiercer—all tangled together.
He’s too close, his breath warm against my temple, the roughness of his palms a counterpoint to the careful strength in his grip. It feels intimate, too intimate for two people who’ve known each other less than a day. But I can’t bring myself to pull away.
For once, I don’t want distance. I want to turn into him, to let the solidity of his body erase the tremor in mine, to be held instead of holding everything together alone.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does. God, it does.
“You did it,” he says, voice roughened by more than exhaustion. “Carolina, you did it.”
The sound of my name in his mouth slides through me like a caress, low and unguarded—each syllable spoken as if he’s tasting it, claiming it. It wraps around me, grounding and electric all at once, and before I can stop myself, I’m leaning into his touch, chasing the warmth in his voice.
"There's still Device Four." But the words come out weak, exhausted. I disarmed Greer's death trap. I beat him. I didn't fail this time.
The FBI pours into the building, bomb techs moving to secure the device, Parker checking on us with sharp, concerned eyes. Someone wraps a blanket around my shoulders eventhough I'm not cold, and someone else is trying to get me to drink water.
But all I can focus on is Flint—his hands still anchored on my shoulders, his eyes fierce with pride and something deeper that steals the air from my lungs.
Without thinking, I lay my hand over his, the rough heat of his skin meeting my trembling fingers. The contact sends a pulse through me—warm, grounding, unbearably human.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The world narrows to that single point of touch, the thud of my pulse against his palm, the shared breath hanging between us.
Then he moves—swift, sure—spinning me toward him.
I go willingly.
His arms come around me, strong enough to hold the shaking out of me. The impact is soft but all-consuming, the scent of dust and sweat and gunpowder still clinging to him.
