“No. That was my relief.” Mike cleared his throat. “We’ll get you briefed again soon. But not tonight.”
Dante met his gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Mike’s eyes didn’t waver. “Good,” he said. “Neither are we.”
THIRTY-ONE
RECOVERY SUITE – DAY 7 – 0930 HOURS
The door opened, and Dante stepped in, coffee in hand, hoodie rumpled. He’d been sleeping on the couch in the room for days, shaving only when Mack bullied him into it.
Shannon looked up and caught his eye. She didn’t need a speech. She just needed him.
Hunt followed a second later with a soft brace and a PT tech. “You’ll do twenty steps today. That’s it. Ten forward. Ten back. Don’t cheat. Don’t fight it. Just breathe and move.”
Shannon braced her palms on the mattress as Dante stepped up beside her without asking. “Ready?”
“No,” she said. “But I’ll do it anyway.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s my girl.”
The PT tech helped guide the walker into place. Her first step wasn’t graceful. Pain bit through her like a hot cable. She gasped. Froze.
Dante moved toward her like a man approaching something holy. His eyes never left hers. No questions. No pity. He reached out a hand.
She hesitated. Her legs trembled. Her body remembered the pain even if it wasn’t screaming now. But his hand was steady. He pushed the walker away,
“Dante, what are you doing?”
He was humming. Low at first, just a murmur in his chest—a rhythm, not a melody. The kind of music you’d sway to barefoot, eyes closed, hips leading the way.
Her fingers touched his, then gripped. He drew her close—close enough that she felt his warmth, the shape of his breath against her temple. Her body tensed, instinct bracing for pain.
But he didn’t move her. He waited.
And when she breathed—just once—he shifted his weight. Back, then forward. Left. Right. A lean. A pulse. The illusion of motion before motion came.
His voice was barely a whisper: “This is the part where you follow.”
She did. Not gracefully, not fully. But enough. Her feet dragged, uneven. One hip caught. But he matched her. Every stutter was met with rhythm. Every misstep was folded into the dance.
He hummed louder now. The sound carried through his chest into hers. One slow turn. Then another. Her hand curled tighter into his shirt. He moved like the song was inside him, like it was the only thing left in the world.
And she—she began to move too. Not because her body could. But because he believed it could.
He spun her, his arms catching her at the end, holding her steady. Her breath hitched.
“I’ve got you,” he said as her body sagged into his.
Her feet never left the ground. She was dancing. She didn’t know when it stopped being impossible. She only knew she wasn’t being held up anymore. She was upright. Moving. Spinning, swaying, caught in something older than language.
She laughed—raw, surprised.
Dante’s smile was immediate. “There she is.”
He guided her through one final turn, then lowered her gently to the chair behind her like it was part of the choreography all along.
She didn’t let go of his hand. She had danced.
