"He shouldn't have been out there at all," I say, voice rough from exhaustion and unshed tears. "He should have been in a hospital after the wilderness ambush. But he insisted on staying with me, on being my protection, and now..."
"And now he's alive because he's tough as hell, and you're alive because he was there." Parker sets down her coffee and turns to face me directly. "Ms. Sutton—Caro—what you and Morrison did tonight was extraordinary. Two devices disarmed, Greer's entire network dismantled, and minimal casualties despite multiple engagements. That doesn't happen without exceptional skill and courage from both of you."
I want to feel pride in that. Want to accept the praise and let it ease some of the guilt I've carried for three years. But all I can think about is Flint and the fact that he put himself between me and danger over and over because I designed a weapon that turned into a nightmare.
"He's stable."
I look up to see a doctor in scrubs, looking tired but satisfied.
"Mr. Morrison's pneumothorax has been successfully treated. We've inserted a chest tube to ensure complete lung re-expansion, and he's breathing much better. Three cracked ribs, extensive bruising, but no internal organ damage. He's going to need several weeks of recovery, but barring complications, he should heal completely."
Relief crashes over me so intensely I actually feel lightheaded. "Can I see him?"
"He's in room 314. He's on pain medication but awake, if you want to sit with him."
I'm moving before Parker can say anything, following the doctor through hospital corridors that blur together in my exhaustion.
Room 314 is private and quiet, monitors beeping softly, and there's Flint—propped up in bed to help his breathing, chest wrapped in bandages, a small drainage tube visible under the sheets. But his eyes are open, tracking me when I enter.
The sight of him stops me in the doorway. He looks wrong like this—too still, too pale, attached to oxygen. This is a man who threw himself into harm's way repeatedly, who fought through pain that would have dropped most people. Seeing him in a hospital bed, connected to machines, makes something crack open in my chest.
I cross the room in three strides, my hands reaching for him before I can think better of it. One hand finds his face, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. The other reaches for his hand, threading our fingers together, needing the physical confirmation that he's warm, alive, here.
His skin is cooler than normal, but his eyes are clear when they meet mine, and the smile that curves his mouth is small but real.
"Hey," he manages, and the sound of his voice—rough with anesthesia but unmistakably him—nearly undoes me.
"Hey yourself." My voice cracks embarrassingly. I don't care. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Sorry." His thumb moves weakly against my hand. "Didn't mean to."
"You couldn't breathe. You had a pneumothorax, and you just kept going like it was nothing."
"Not nothing," he admits, wincing slightly as he shifts. "Hurt like hell. But you needed me functional, so I stayed functional."
I want to yell at him. Want to tell him he's an idiot for pushing so hard, for staying when he should have gone, for risking everything to protect me. But what comes out instead is: "Thank you. For everything. For saving my life. Multiple times."
"Hey," he says, eyes focusing on mine despite the pain medication. "Are you okay?"
Of course, that's what he'd ask, even drugged and recovering from chest trauma. Not 'how bad are my injuries' or 'what happened'—but checking on me.
"I'm fine." I sit carefully on the edge of his bed, mindful of the chest tube and monitoring equipment. "You're the one who needed emergency treatment."
"But you disarmed the devices." There's pride in his voice, unmistakable even through the drug haze. "Beat Greer at his own game. Saved lives. Won."
"We won," I correct gently. "I couldn't have done it without you."
"Maybe. But you were always going to succeed. I just... made sure you got the chance." His eyes are trying to focus on my face, but keep drifting. "Worth it. You're worth it."
My throat closes up. I bring his hand to my cheek. "You almost died for me. Multiple times. That's not okay, Flint. That's not just doing your job."
"I know." His thumb moves weakly against my skin. "Told you before. Couldn't let... couldn't let anything happen to you."
"I care about you," I admit, the words easier than I expected. "And that's terrifying, because we just met, and this is probably just trauma bonding, and I don't know how to?—"
"Doesn't matter." His eyes meet mine with surprising clarity, given the drugs. "Real or not, it’s worth exploring. After I heal. We figure it out. Deal?"
"Deal." I lean down carefully and press a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep now. Heal. I'll be here when you wake up."
