The nurse returns and insists that visiting hours are over. I promise to return in the morning, but Sawyer doesn't let go of my hand.
"Stay."
"I can't—hospital rules?—"
"I've been shot, blown up, and saved California from a chemical incident. They can bend the rules."
The nurse looks between us, sighs. "Fine. But if anyone asks, she snuck in after my shift ended."
She leaves, and I curl up in the chair that's become my second home. Sawyer's hand finds mine again.
"Tell me about after," I say. "When you're healed, and I’m settled, and life is normal. What does that look like?"
"Sunday mornings without alarms. Coffee that doesn't taste like dirt. Teaching you to rock climb and rappel properly so you're not terrified of heights."
"I'll always be terrified of heights."
"But you'll climb anyway. Because you're brave like that." His voice goes softer. "Maybe a house near the beach. You said you love beaches."
"I do."
"Dinner with my team. You'll love them—they're all slightly insane, just like us."
"Sounds perfect."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He falls asleep holding my hand, and I watch him breathe, this man who jumped out a window for a stranger. My phone buzzes—text from CJ at Guardian HRS, inquiring about the position. I accept without hesitation.
The next morning brings chaos—media attention, official statements, and enough paperwork to build a fort. But through it all, Sawyer and I stay connected, orbiting each other even when pulled in different directions.
I feel nothing over Nathan’s death—no satisfaction, no regret, just hollow acknowledgment that it's over.
By evening, I'm officially no longer FBI. My credentials surrendered, my access revoked, my five-year career ended with a form and a handshake. Santos hugs me, tells me I'll always have a place if I change my mind. I thank her, but I won't be back.
Guardian HRS sends a car, and I arrive at their facility as the sun sets over the mountains. CJ himself does the tour, showing me the technical division where I'll work. State-of-the-art everything, quantum computing access, and a team that looks at me with respect instead of suspicion.
He hands me a tablet with my first assignment. "Titan is rebuilding their chemical division. Want to make sure they can't?"
"Absolutely."
"Then welcome to Guardian HRS, Ms. Cross."
Sawyer's waiting when the tour ends, leg in a brace but mobile. "How'd it go?"
"I start Monday."
"That's four days away."
"Recovery time, apparently. CJ insists I need to sleep for seventy-two hours before tackling Titan."
"Sounds about right." He’s dressed in jeans and a Henley that does wonderful things to his chest. "Have dinner with me."
"Now?"
"Now. No running, no shooting, no bombs. Just food and conversation and seeing if we work without adrenaline."
