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He grins. “Can I kiss you?”

I stare at him, heart pounding. More than anything in this world, I want to say yes.

“Asking for medical reasons,” he adds. "Restorative purposes. I have documentation.”

“You do not have documentation about kissing me.”

“Marcus could write something up."

“Marcus hates me.”

“He does not.”

“He basically threatened to kill me if I break your heart.”

“In that case.” He smiles like a cat that ate the canary and crawls closer to me. “You’d better kiss me. Wouldn’t want to piss off Doctor Marcus.”

And even though it’s dumb and reckless and I’ll likely regret it, I do, in fact, kiss him. And he is, in the end, restored.

The rest of the day disappears into interviews, reports, and pretending I’m not checking Nash’s color every time he walks into a room. When I finally get home, my apartment is quiet in the way it gets only after midnight; the city sounds dropping to a low hum, the lights across the skyline thinning to scattered embers. I’ve showered. I’m in my oldest, rattiest pajamas. Echo has claimed the center of my pillow with the territorial confidence of a creature who has decided this is his bed now and I’m welcome to the edges.

It’s good to be home. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I might have stayed with Nash if Doctor Marcus hadn’t kept coming in to check on his patient. Awkward.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Dad.

I pick up before the second buzz. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” His voice is warm and slightly gravelly the way it always is this late. He’s a morning person by nature, always has been, and anything past ten costs him. “Just checking in. You never called me back.”

“Shit, I forgot. Sorry about that. Long day.”

“I heard about what happened out there.”

I sigh. “Sorry, I meant to call you earlier.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“Did you eat today?”

“I had…” I try to remember. Somewhere between the blood oath and Nash passing out and the interview structure and driving home, there was probably food.

“Mia.”

“I’ll eat a big breakfast tomorrow. Speaking of which.” I pull my knees up and lean against the headboard. Echo opens one eye at the disruption and closes it again. “Are we still on? Seven o’clock?”

“Of course. I’ll make eggs," he says.

“Or you could pick something up.”

“Hey. I make good eggs.”

“You make adequate eggs."

He laughs, low and easy, the laugh that used to fill our whole house when I was small. It still does something to me, that laugh. Probably always will. “Seven o’clock,” he repeats. “Don’t be late.”