Eli pulls a chair closer. Sits. Holds her gaze with steady intensity that might terrify enemy combatants but seems to ground her.
"You did good today," he tells her. His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "Took real spine to give them what they needed. Most people break under less."
Her pen moves. She shows him the notebook.
Are you proud of me?
The question hangs in the air. Vulnerable. A seventeen-year-old girl asking her uncle—a man she barely knows, who's been living isolated in the wilderness for years—if he's proud of her.
Eli's expression doesn't soften. Doesn't shift into warmth or reassurance. But something changes in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. The kind you only get from someone who understands surviving hell.
"Yeah." It's a single word. No elaboration. A beat passes. "You survived what would've destroyed most people. Fought back. Doing what needs doing to stop them." He pauses. "That's strength."
Traci's face lights up. A genuine smile that transforms her features. She scribbles quickly.
Thank you for keeping me safe.
"That's the job." Eli's voice roughens slightly. "You're family. Means something."
I watch the exchange, see Eli connect with this girl without softening the hard edges that define him. No false warmth. No pretending he's something other than a man who learned to survive by managing the darkness the field put in him. Just brutal honesty delivered with the same sharp focus he brings to everything.
He's not broken. Not fixed. Just containing the violence through rigid discipline most people don't have.
This is the man David could never be—someone who faces his demons without destroying himself or everyone around him.
Traci's eyes are drooping. The exhaustion catching up with her.
"Rest," I tell her. "You've done enough for today."
She nods, settles deeper into the bed. Within minutes, she's asleep.
Eli and I leave the infirmary together. Move into the hallway. The compound is quieter now, late afternoon settling into evening. Finn's still outside monitoring sensors. Cara's processing documentation in the communications room. Defensive preparations continuing in the background.
Eli stops. Turns to face me in the narrow hallway. Close enough that I catch the scent of him—gun oil, coffee, something darker underneath that makes my pulse kick.
"She's tough," he says quietly.
"She is. Tougher than she knows."
"She trusts you." His gaze holds mine. Steady. Assessing. "That's not easy for her. Trust."
"I know. But she's learning that not everyone's a threat." I study his face, see the tension in his jaw, the controlled stillness that comes from managing what he is every minute of every day. "You're good with her. Better than you think."
"Don't know what I'm doing."
"None of us do with trauma survivors. But you're showing up. That's what matters."
He doesn't respond. Just stands there in the hallway, working through whatever he's thinking. Close enough that I feel the heat coming off him. Close enough that my body remembers what those hands felt like—the controlled force, the bruising pressure, the way he took me apart with the same focused intensity he brings to killing.
Dangerous territory while we're preparing for an assault.
His hand comes up. Fingers brush my jaw, just once. Light touch that sends electricity straight through me.
"What happens after?" he asks, voice dropping lower. Rougher. "When this is over. When Graves is dealt with and the threat's eliminated. What happens to Traci?"
Takes me a second to answer through the distraction of his thumb now tracing my jawline. "She'll need support. Therapy. Time to heal. A safe place to build a life that's not defined by what was done to her."
"She'll need family." His hand drops but he doesn't step back. Still in my space, still close enough that I feel the controlled violence in him like static. "Someone who gives a damn whether she makes it or not."
