"Promise?"
"Promise."
His eyes drift closed, breath evening out into the rhythm of medicated sleep. I sit with him for a long time, holding his hand, watching the monitors that confirm he's breathing easily now, oxygen levels normal. The paracord bracelet is still on his wrist, blood-stained and battered.
Eventually, Parker finds me and gently insists I need rest, too. I have a hotel room waiting—a bed I haven’t seen in over thirty hours—but I'm reluctant to leave. Only the promise that they'll call if anything changes convinces me to go, and even then, I extract Flint's promise that I'll be back first thing in the morning.
Three days later, I'm back at Guardian HRS facility, this time not as a consultant in crisis but as someone considering a future I didn't know I wanted until recently.
CJ's office looks the same—maps, monitors, the organized efficiency of a man who runs multiple teams across complicated operations. But the weight feels different now. I'm not here because the world is burning. I'm here because maybe I belong here.
"The FBI has formally closed the case on Marcus Greer," CJ says, sliding a file across his desk toward me. "All devices accounted for and disarmed, his network dismantled, prosecution moving forward. They're recommending federal terrorism charges that will put him away for the rest of his life."
I scan the file, seeing photos of Greer in handcuffs, his expression no longer smug but defeated. He failed. His elaborate revenge plot, three years in the making, ended with me alive and his bombs disabled. Part of me wishes I could feel satisfaction in that.
Mostly, I just feel tired.
"How are you doing?" CJ asks, his voice gentler than I'd expect from someone with his reputation.
"Processing." It's the most honest answer I have. "Three days of sleep helped. So did hearing that none of Greer's people survived to try again. But I keep replaying everything, wondering what I missed, how I could have prevented?—"
"You can't prevent someone else's choices to pursue revenge." CJ leans back in his chair. "You designed something innovative for training purposes. Greer corrupted it and used it to hurt people. That's on him, not you."
Intellectually, I know he's right. Emotionally, it'll take longer to believe it. But having survived Greer's test, having proven I could disarm devices specifically designed to kill me—that helps.
It doesn't erase the guilt about Noah Parker, but it adds something else to the equation. Evidence that I'm not a fraud, not a danger, not someone who should hide from her own expertise.
"Agent Parker mentioned you might have a proposition for me," I say, changing the subject slightly.
"We do." CJ pulls up something on his tablet, then turns it to face me. "Guardian HRS has been discussing expanding our capabilities to include EOD consultation and training. After watching you these past few days, we'd like you to join us. Contract basis initially, with the possibility of permanent hire if it's a good fit."
I study the details he's showing me—salary figures that make my wilderness guide work look like hobby income, benefits, flexible scheduling, and the chance to use my skills for something meaningful. Teaching Guardian operators advanced EOD techniques, consulting on device threats, maybe even developing new training protocols that honor what I learned from Noah's death without running from it.
"Would I be working with Flint's team?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
CJ's expression suggests I'm not fooling him. "Not directly—you'd be a contractor available to all Guardian teams. But Morrison will be on medical leave for at least four weeks while his ribs heal. Desk duty after that." He pauses meaningfully. "Though I imagine he'll be more amenable to recovery if someone he cares about is around the facility regularly."
"Is this a professional offer or a matchmaking attempt?"
"Can't it be both?" There's almost a smile in CJ's eyes. "Look, Sutton what you and Morrison did out there was remarkable. Not just the tactical success, but the way you worked together. Trust under pressure like that is rare. Whether that translates to something beyond the professional is your business. But Guardian HRS values people who can function in crisis, who have specialized skills, and who've proven they'll see a mission through regardless of personal cost. You check all those boxes."
I think about joining Guardian HRS, about building something new from the wreckage of my guilt and Greer's revenge. About being around Flint while he heals, while we figure out if what we feel is real or just adrenaline and proximity.
"I'll need to finish out my contract with Sierra Wilderness Expeditions," I say slowly. "Give them notice, train my replacement, do it right."
"We can work with that timeline."
"I’m not ready to make this decision. It feels simultaneously scary and right." I take a breath,
"Take some time," CJ leans back, "finish up with the guide company, and then we'll talk." He stands, signaling the meeting's end, but pauses at the door. "Morrison's in physical therapy right now, if you wanted to stop by. Room 108, east wing of Medical."
I head to room 108, where through the window I see Flint doing breathing exercises with a respiratory therapist. He's in Guardian HRS athletic gear, moving carefully, obviously still in pain from the cracked ribs, but pushing through with determination.
The physical therapist sees me first and says something to Flint. He turns, face lighting up when he sees me—actual joy, unguarded and immediate. It does something to my chest, that expression, makes me think maybe this isn't just trauma bonding after all.
"Hey," he says, walking over carefully, one hand pressed lightly to his ribs. "What are you doing here?"
"Just had a meeting with CJ. Offered me a contract position." I watch his face carefully. "Teaching EOD, consulting on device threats, that kind of thing."
