"Hey yourself." I reach for her hand with my good arm. "They told you to go home, didn't they?"
"Several times." She sits in the chair someone pulled up next to the bed, her fingers threading through mine. "I told them I was staying."
"You need rest."
"So do you." She leans forward, studying my face with the same intensity she probably applied to analyzing evidence. "How's the pain?"
"Manageable. They've got me on the good stuff." I squeeze her hand gently. "You saved my life."
"Just returning the favor. We need to stop making this a pattern."
"Agreed." I watch her face, looking for signs of how she's processing everything that happened. The confrontation with Montrose. The kill shot. The helicopter ride where she thought I might die. "Have you slept?"
"No. Harlow's been calling every hour with updates. The files you helped me transmit are doing exactly what we hoped. Arrests across three states so far. Eight officials in custody, including two who've been on the watch list for years."
"That's good news."
"Yeah." She doesn't sound happy about it. "Task force needs me for formal debriefing. They need me to walk them through three years of investigation and testify before oversight committees."
Congressional oversight committees. That means Washington. That means she'll be pulled back to testify, maybe for weeks. And once she's cleared, once the Bureau reinstates her, she'll have options again. Better assignments than remote Alaska.
"When do you leave?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
"That's the thing." Cara shifts in her chair, not quite meeting my eyes. "Harlow offered me something else. A position on her task force. Permanent spot, based in Whitewater Junction."
My heart does something complicated in my chest. "Alaska?"
"They need someone on the ground here. Someone who knows the terrain and the players. Someone who can coordinate with local law enforcement and run operations across the state." She finally looks at me. "It's a good opportunity. Career advancement, chance to make a real difference in dismantling these networks."
"Sounds perfect for you."
"Maybe." She stands, restless energy making her pace the small space between bed and window. "I've spent three years running. Three years focused on one thing. Taking down Montrose. Clearing my name. Getting justice for Tom and the agents who died in Stormwatch."
"Mission accomplished."
"Yeah." She stops at the window, staring out at the Anchorage skyline. "Except somewhere in the middle of all that running, I forgot what it feels like to have a reason to stay somewhere. To want something besides revenge and vindication."
I wait, giving her space to work through whatever she's wrestling with. The monitors beep steadily. Voices carry faintly from the hallway. The hospital continues its routine around us.
"What do you want, Cara?"
She turns back to face me, and the vulnerability in her expression makes my chest tight. "I want to stay. I want to see where this goes. I want to wake up next to you and argue about coffee and figure out what ordinary life looks like with someone who sees all of me and wants me anyway."
She crosses back to the bed and sits on the edge, careful not to jostle my shoulder. I reach up with my good arm and pull her down until her forehead rests against mine.
"Stay," I tell her. "Take the position. Stay in Alaska. Stay with me."
"What about your waiver? You got cleared to fly again. You could leave. Go somewhere with better opportunities. Better airports. Better weather."
"The surgeon thinks this shoulder injury complicates things. Might make it harder to get full clearance." I pause, letting the reality settle between us. "But I lost the sky when that helicopter went down. Spent years grieving what I couldn't get back. Spent six months filling out paperwork and jumping through hoops for a waiver that might not even matter now." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "But watching you choose Alaska, choose me, I realize that sometimes losing one thing makes room for something better."
She blinks hard against tears. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me, and we're in a hospital room that smells like industrial cleaner."
"I'll work on my timing."
"Don't you dare." She kisses me, careful and thorough, like she's sealing a promise.
The door opens and Harlow Kane appears, Rhys Blackwater right behind her. They both stop short at finding us in what is definitely not a professional position.
