Shannon hesitated, then nodded once.
Teslow passed over a small envelope. Inside was a handwritten note, folded neatly, with a familiar angular signature at the bottom.
Warrant Officer Mara Esten, in-training evaluation.
The major wrote,Strong instincts. Calmer with Johnson. Could follow her into the storm and not worry about coming out.
Scrawled next to Mara’s signature,she wrote,If anything ever happens, tell her I said thank you.
Shannon stared at it. She didn’t cry. But she stopped breathing for a full ten seconds before her shoulders shook once. Just once.
PRIVATE SUITE – RECOVERY WARD – 2204 HOURS
She didn’t say anything when Dante entered fresh from a debrief with Ford and Mike, his black hoodie half unzipped, hair damp from the shower. He looked exhausted. She was sitting upright in bed, overhead lights off, reading the same damn note for the fifth time.
He paused at the doorway. “You okay?”
Shannon nodded but didn’t look up.
He moved closer as if approaching a wounded animal. “Therapy today.”
She folded the note, fingers steady. “Yes.”
“And?”
“It was like bleeding without getting cut.”
He nodded. “Good therapist, then.”
Finally, she held out the note. He read it, then folded it carefully and set it on the table. He sat beside her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
She let herself lean into him. This time, she didn’t fight the tears. Not for her mother.
Not for Mara. Not for the girl she’d been before the crash. Just for now. For the man who hadn’t left.
RECOVERY CENTER – 0702 HOURS
The rehab gym smelled like chlorine and rubber mats, faintly antiseptic. Shannon stood, thirty-five days after the crash, at the treadmill, fingers curled tight around the side rails. Her legs were tense and braced. The pressure sleeve on her left hip was snug, the fabric pressing into healing tissue.
Mack Browning, her assigned PA, stood two feet away, hands resting loosely behind his back, watchful and quiet. Dante sat nearby, his posture relaxed but only at first glance.
The treadmill’s belt hadn’t moved yet. She stared at the blank display.
“You don’t have to do this today,” Mack said gently.
“That’s not true,” she said without looking at him.
Dante’s eyes tracked her, not pressing, not offering comfort, just present.
She pressed the start button, and the belt engaged with a soft hum. Slow. Barely a walk. She placed her right foot first. Then the left, heel gingerly touching the surface. A hitch. A wobble.
Mack tensed slightly. But Shannon steadied. Right. Left. Right. Again. The ache burned from her lower back down through her thigh. The joint was tight, the scar tissue stiff. Every step sent an echo through her system.
She gritted her teeth. Didn’t stop. She walked a full minute before she adjusted the speed.
0.9. Then 1.2.
When Dante stood, her eyes flicked to him. Slowly, deliberately, she hit the 1.8 mark. Not a run, but not a walk. She jogged. Three strides. Four.
