“Doctor gave me the all clear. Just told me not to run a marathon or do any squats for the next few weeks.”
“Guess that means you're grounded from the gym.” She seemed to be trying for lightness, but fatigue clung to her words.
“Come on,” he said gently. “You need to relax.”
She took his hand. Then limped him across the hall, where he pulled out a key card and waved it in front of the handle.
“Why are you taking me to your room?”
“Because if someone doesn’t keep an eye on you, you won’t rest at all.” He opened the door and lowered his chin. “In you go.”
She hesitated for about ten seconds before stepping inside. The room was small. Neutral walls. One bed. A chair. A littletable where a room service menu was still folded open. He gestured for her to sit, but she shook her head and wandered to the far corner, near the window, arms hugging herself again. “Feels different,” she murmured.
“What does?”
“Being out of the field. In a hotel. Not under gunfire.” Her voice cracked slightly. “It’s too quiet.” She wiggled her fingers. “I don’t do silence well.”
He didn’t push. Just dropped onto the edge of the bed, letting the stillness stretch.
The thing about Lark was that she wasn’t exactly who she thought she was. Yes, she was as tough as nails. She was a force to be reckoned with. A true leader. The kind of woman who commanded respect. Not because she demanded it. But because she’d earned it. She was all the things she’d fought tooth and nail to become and expected the world of covert ops to see.
But she was so much more than what she wanted the world to witness. To respect. To value. Behind the tough exterior was flesh and blood. There was a woman who resided there. A woman who felt things. A woman who cared. A woman who loved.
Even if she didn’t want to admit it.
“You don’t do a lot of things well,” he said. “But neither do I.” He leaned back, studying her. Studying the woman, not the warrior.
He knew both well. At least, he liked to believe that.
“You break rules well,” she said softly.
“Why are you stuck on me and rules? I’m not some reckless cowboy who’s incable of following a direct order.” He reached up, tugged at his ponytail, and ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t break a single one regarding coming back to get you in South America, so let that one go.”
“You remember Caracas?” she asked suddenly.
“Which part? The hotel with the rats, or the alley shootout with the guy in the chicken costume?”
“The chicken—” Her mouth twitched. “Poor Moose was traumatized.”
“That bastard had good aim, even wearing that feathered costume.”
“I still have the scar on my calf.” She laughed. “Moose wanted to name that damn scar. Said it reminded him of Cluck Norris, which I thought was weird—why the scar and not the man shooting at us?”
“Moose doesn’t name bad people,” Kawan said. “ And especially not after his beloved Cluck. God, even I adore that chicken. One of my favorites, next to Mrs. Doubtfire, now that’s a sweet old chicken.” He stared at her profile. “What made you think of that?
A long beat passed between them.
She turned toward him, arms still crossed. “Most people saw an uptight, crazy person. You—and your team--were the only ones who didn’t look at me like I was insane back then.”
“That’s because we knew you were.” He shrugged. “Didn’t bother us—especially me.”
“Why?”
“Because I was worse.”
“We lost a few good people on that mission.” She stepped closer and sat on the edge of the bed beside him. “I didn’t cry. Not once. Not at the field hospital. Not at the evac point. Not when we landed. Not at the base.” Her jaw trembled for the first time. “I couldn’t. I didn’t have time. I had to keep it together.”
“Pain isn’t always something to cry about. I get that,” he said. “This is different, and you don’t have to hold it together. No one is keeping score. Least of all me. Trust me when I say I’ve shed more than my fair share of tears.”
