"I lived it," she reminds me quietly. "Whatever's in those files, I experienced first hand. Reading about it can't hurt me more than living through it did."
The truth in her statement is undeniable, yet something in me still resists exposing her to the cold documentation of her captivity. Not just for her protection, but selfishly, for my own peace of mind. Every reminder of what she endured during those five years cuts like a blade.
"You keep trying to protect me from my own past," she continues when I don't immediately respond. "But that past is what makes me valuable to this operation. My experience, my understanding of how these people think and work."
"I know that," I acknowledge.
"Then stop shutting me out." The words burst from her with unexpected intensity. "Stop treating me like I'm made of glass, like I'll shatter if I see one more horrible thing. I survived five years of hell, Falcon. I can handle spreadsheets and server data."
Her frustration is justified. Since her return, I've maintained an emotional distance while simultaneously trying to protect her—a contradiction that serves neither of us well. The woman before me isn't the one I lost five years ago, and my failure to fully acknowledge who she's become does us both a disservice.
"You're right," I admit finally. "Old habits. Protective instincts."
"I don't need protection," she says, softening slightly. "I need partnership. Respect for what I've become, not just mourning for who I was."
The directness of her assessment hits home. Despite everything we've been through, despite working together on operations and planning, I've continued to see her primarily through the lens of our past relationship and her trauma. Never fully acknowledging the strength and capability she's demonstrated since her return.
"Fair enough," I concede. "Full access to the evidence, full participation in the analysis. You've more than earned it."
Relief crosses her features, followed by determination. "Thank you."
A moment of awkward silence follows, the conversation having ventured closer to our personal relationship than either of us typically allows. The unresolved feelings between us—complicated by five years of separation, her captivity, my misguided anger—hover in the air, acknowledged but not addressed.
"There's something else," she says finally, voice dropping lower. "Something I haven't told you because I wasn't sure what it meant."
My full attention focuses on her, noting the tension in her posture. "Go on."
"When I was first taken, before they moved me into the general system, Kane visited personally." She speaks carefully, as if navigating a minefield of memory. "He said something about balancing accounts, about you understanding loss the way he had."
The reference to Kane's sister is unmistakable. "We know it was revenge for what happened during our operation," I remind her. "That's established."
"Yes, but there was more to it." Her eyes meet mine directly. "He said he'd chosen me specifically not just because we were together, but because of who I was to you. He said, and I remember this exactly, 'Falcon thinks he can protect the people he loves. He needs to learn that some debts can never be paid in full.'"
The phrasing strikes a chord of memory—something from my past before Cara, before the Saints even. "Did he elaborate?"
She shakes her head. "That was it. I was drugged after that, moved to another facility. Never saw Kane personally again."
I struggle to make connections between Kane's cryptic statement and my history. Nothing obvious emerges, though the sense of a deeper, older conflict lingers just beyond reach of conscious memory.
"Why bring this up now?" I ask.
"Because of what we found tonight," she explains. "Evidence left for us to find, a warning about expecting us, the missing encryption keys. It feels like Kane is still playing a game, still controlling the narrative. And I can't shake the feeling that there's something from your past, something beyond the club conflict, driving his vendetta."
The possibility resonates uncomfortably. Kane and I traveled in adjacent circles before either of us joined our respective MCs. Nothing significant enough to warrant this level of revenge, but perhaps something I've overlooked or forgotten.
"I'll dig deeper," I promise. "See if there's a connection I'm missing."
She nods, seemingly satisfied with this commitment. "We should join the others. The encryption work needs all hands available."
As she stands to leave, I catch her arm gently. "Cara."
She pauses, questioning.
"Thank you. For pushing back when I need it. For not letting me keep making the same mistakes."
A hint of her old smile touches her lips—not the carefree expression from before, but something new, tempered by experience yet genuine. "Someone has to keep you honest, Falcon. Might as well be me."
The simple statement carries layers of meaning—acknowledgment of our history, recognition of our current connection, perhaps even a tentative bridge toward whatever future might be possible. Not forgiveness exactly, nor forgetting, but a willingness to move forward together despite the damage we both carry.
