His smile grows. "Yeah? That's... that's good. Really good. We need someone with your expertise."
"And apparently, stubborn operators on medical leave need someone to make sure they don't push too hard in recovery." I gesture to where the therapist is watching. "CJ mentioned you'll be on restricted duty for a while."
"Four weeks minimum while these ribs heal. Then desk duty." He says it without regret. "Totally worth it, though."
"Idiot," I say, but there's no heat in it.
"Your idiot, if you want." He says it lightly, but there's a real question underneath. "We said we'd figure out what this is, after. It's after. So... what do you think?"
I step closer. "I think it might be real. I want to find out."
"Me too." His hand comes up to cup my face. "I'm not good at relationships. I'm gone a lot, the work is dangerous, and I carry baggage."
"I'm not great at them either. But maybe we're both ready to try something different."
"Different sounds good." He leans down slowly, giving me time to pull back if I want, but I don't. I meet him halfway, and the kiss is gentle, testing.
When we pull back, he's smiling. "So. We're doing this?"
"We're doing this." I step back. "But first, you finish recovery. I'll finish with my guide company. Let's do this right."
"Sounds like a plan. Dinner tonight? If you're still in town."
"Dinner sounds good."
I leave him to finish his session, but I can't quite stop smiling as I walk back through the Guardian HRS facility.
The future feels uncertain in ways that would have terrified me a week ago. But now, having survived Greer's worst and disarmed every device he built to destroy me, uncertainty feels like possibility instead of threat.
TWELVE
CAROLINA
ONE WEEK LATER
Flint's apartment is smaller than I expected—a one-bedroom in a secure building near Guardian HRS, furnished with the kind of functional minimalism that speaks to a man who's rarely home. But it's clean, organized, and the west-facing windows let in golden evening light that softens everything.
"You didn't have to come check on me." He's on the couch, breathing easier now though still moving carefully to protect his healing ribs. The worst of the bruising has faded from black and purple to greenish-yellow.
"You're bored and going stir-crazy," I counter, setting down the takeout I brought—Thai food from the place he mentioned liking. "And your physical therapist called me. Said you're pushing too hard, not resting enough."
"Traitor," he mutters, but there's warmth in his eyes when he looks at me.
I set down takeout—Thai food from his favorite place—and settle beside him carefully.
"Doctor cleared me for light activity," he says, pulling me closer gently. "Ribs are healing well. No more breathing issues."
"Good." I curl into his side, careful of his chest. "Because I officially accepted CJ's offer today. I start next week."
His face lights up. "Yeah? You going to take it?"
"Yes."
His arms tighten around me carefully. "That's fantastic."
We eat in comfortable silence, then talk for hours about everything—my plans for the EOD program, his gradual return to duty, the future we're building.
When the conversation lulls, he turns to me with a serious expression.
