Not perfect.
Not untouched.
Not magically healed by time and one good week.
But alive again.
Present.
Whole in ways I wasn’t sure we’d ever get back.
Will studies her for a long moment. Really studies her. Not the operative. Not the liar. Not the woman who shattered every illusion he’d tried to build around her. Just his daughter. Standing there smiling, flushed from the range, proud of her mother, breathing easy.
Then, quietly, “You look good, kid.”
She softens instantly. “Thanks, Dad.”
They share a small, fragile smile. The kind that looks like a bridge being rebuilt plank by plank over water that almost drowned both sides.
Progress.
Delilah notices me watching and lifts a brow. “Why do you look like you’re about to face a firing squad?”
“Because I was,” I mutter.
She laughs and drops into the chair beside him, stealing my coffee without asking.
“Ew.” She grimaces after one sip. “This is awful.”
“Military-grade,” I defend.
“War crime-grade,” she corrects, setting the mug back down with visible disgust.
Her mom settles on the couch like she belongs in every room she walks into, which, to be fair, she does. “So, Captain Cash, how close is she to full clearance?”
“Medically?” I answer, letting the easy part come first because it’s safer. “Another week. Psych eval says she’s stable. Strong coping mechanisms. Healthy processing.”
Delilah rolls her eyes so hard I’m amazed they don’t fall out. “He reads my file like bedtime stories.”
“Important research,” I say solemnly.
She kicks my shin under the desk. Hard enough to be felt. Not hard enough to count as assault. Probably.
Will watches us.
Really watches.
And for the first time, I don’t see anger in his eyes. Not fully. Not primarily. I see understanding. A reluctant, exhausted, paternal kind of understanding that is somehow worse for my nerves than outright hostility would’ve been.
My phone buzzes.
Saved by technology.
I check it.
Moe.
I answer without thinking. “What is it, kid? I’m in the middle of—”
