Chapter 11 CAROLINA
ELEVEN
CAROLINA
The hospital waiting room is antiseptic and fluorescent, designed for efficiency rather than comfort.
I've been here for three hours while they work on Flint—monitoring the pneumothorax, ensuring his collapsed lung has fully re-expanded, checking for internal bleeding from the multiple vest impacts, all the medical intervention required when someone pushes through catastrophic chest trauma through sheer stubbornness and refuses to quit until the mission's done.
Agent Parker sits with me, nursing terrible vending machine coffee and occasionally trying to get me to eat something from the collection of snacks she's accumulated.
I can't.
My stomach is in knots, my mind replaying every moment from the terminal—the device, the firefight, Flint taking those rounds to his vest and still returning fire, the way his breathing got more labored as he maintained security while I worked.
I press my palms against my eyes, I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the images, but they keep coming: the way he looked at me when he said I was worth it.
The feel of his mouth on mine. The absolute certainty in his voice when he promised to keep me safe.
The way he was struggling to breathe, but wouldn't leave his post.
"Ms. Sutton?" Parker's voice is gentle. "He's going to be fine."
"You don't know that." My voice is rougher than I intend. "He's being treated for a pneumothorax because of me. Because he kept throwing himself between me and danger, kept fighting when he should have been evacuated, kept—"
I stop, throat closing up. Kept looking at me like I mattered more than his own survival.
The truth is, I'm terrified. Not just of losing him to complications or respiratory failure. I'm terrified of how much I already feel for a man I've known less than forty-eight hours. Terrified of how right it felt to kiss him, to hold him, to promise we'd figure out what this is between us.
I'm terrified because I haven't felt this way since before Noah Parker died, since before I convinced myself that caring about people was just another way to fail them. And now here's Flint Morrison—stubborn, brave, ridiculous Flint—making me feel things I thought I'd buried for good.
Making me want things. Making me hope.
"I barely know him," I say quietly, more to myself than Parker.
"Sometimes that doesn't matter." Parker sets down her coffee. "Sometimes you just know."
I look at her, seeing understanding in her eyes. "Is it always this terrifying?"
"If it's real? Always." She offers a slight smile. "But that's how you know it's worth it."
He took multiple rounds to his vest for me.
Fought with cracked ribs and a developing pneumothorax.
Nearly suffocated maintaining security so I could focus on disarming a bomb.
And I didn't even realize how bad it was until Device Four was neutralized and I turned to find him propped against a pillar, pale and gasping for air.
"He's going to be okay," Parker says for maybe the fifth time. "The doctor said the pneumothorax has been successfully treated, no permanent damage. The ribs will heal. He'll be on medical leave for a while, but he'll make a full recovery."
"He shouldn't have been out there at all," I say, voice rough from exhaustion and unshed tears. "He should have been in a hospital after the wilderness ambush. But he insisted on staying with me, on being my protection, and now..."
"And now he's alive because he's tough as hell, and you're alive because he was there.
" Parker sets down her coffee and turns to face me directly.
"Ms. Sutton—Caro—what you and Morrison did tonight was extraordinary.
Two devices disarmed, Greer's entire network dismantled, and minimal casualties despite multiple engagements.
That doesn't happen without exceptional skill and courage from both of you. "
I want to feel pride in that. Want to accept the praise and let it ease some of the guilt I've carried for three years. But all I can think about is Flint and the fact that he put himself between me and danger over and over because I designed a weapon that turned into a nightmare.
"He's stable."
I look up to see a doctor in scrubs, looking tired but satisfied.
"Mr. Morrison's pneumothorax has been successfully treated.
We've inserted a chest tube to ensure complete lung re-expansion, and he's breathing much better.
Three cracked ribs, extensive bruising, but no internal organ damage.
He's going to need several weeks of recovery, but barring complications, he should heal completely. "
Relief crashes over me so intensely I actually feel lightheaded. "Can I see him?"
"He's in room 314. He's on pain medication but awake, if you want to sit with him."
I'm moving before Parker can say anything, following the doctor through hospital corridors that blur together in my exhaustion.
Room 314 is private and quiet, monitors beeping softly, and there's Flint—propped up in bed to help his breathing, chest wrapped in bandages, a small drainage tube visible under the sheets. But his eyes are open, tracking me when I enter.
The sight of him stops me in the doorway.
He looks wrong like this—too still, too pale, attached to oxygen.
This is a man who threw himself into harm's way repeatedly, who fought through pain that would have dropped most people.
Seeing him in a hospital bed, connected to machines, makes something crack open in my chest.
I cross the room in three strides, my hands reaching for him before I can think better of it. One hand finds his face, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. The other reaches for his hand, threading our fingers together, needing the physical confirmation that he's warm, alive, here.
His skin is cooler than normal, but his eyes are clear when they meet mine, and the smile that curves his mouth is small but real.
"Hey," he manages, and the sound of his voice—rough with anesthesia but unmistakably him—nearly undoes me.
"Hey yourself." My voice cracks embarrassingly. I don't care. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Sorry." His thumb moves weakly against my hand. "Didn't mean to."
"You couldn't breathe. You had a pneumothorax, and you just kept going like it was nothing."
"Not nothing," he admits, wincing slightly as he shifts. "Hurt like hell. But you needed me functional, so I stayed functional."
I want to yell at him. Want to tell him he's an idiot for pushing so hard, for staying when he should have gone, for risking everything to protect me. But what comes out instead is: "Thank you. For everything. For saving my life. Multiple times."
"Hey," he says, eyes focusing on mine despite the pain medication. "Are you okay?"
Of course, that's what he'd ask, even drugged and recovering from chest trauma. Not 'how bad are my injuries' or 'what happened'—but checking on me.
"I'm fine." I sit carefully on the edge of his bed, mindful of the chest tube and monitoring equipment. "You're the one who needed emergency treatment."
"But you disarmed the devices." There's pride in his voice, unmistakable even through the drug haze. "Beat Greer at his own game. Saved lives. Won."
"We won," I correct gently. "I couldn't have done it without you."
"Maybe. But you were always going to succeed. I just... made sure you got the chance." His eyes are trying to focus on my face, but keep drifting. "Worth it. You're worth it."
My throat closes up. I bring his hand to my cheek. "You almost died for me. Multiple times. That's not okay, Flint. That's not just doing your job."
"I know." His thumb moves weakly against my skin. "Told you before. Couldn't let... couldn't let anything happen to you."
"I care about you," I admit, the words easier than I expected. "And that's terrifying, because we just met, and this is probably just trauma bonding, and I don't know how to—"
"Doesn't matter." His eyes meet mine with surprising clarity, given the drugs. "Real or not, it’s worth exploring. After I heal. We figure it out. Deal?"
"Deal." I lean down carefully and press a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep now. Heal. I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
His eyes drift closed, breath evening out into the rhythm of medicated sleep. I sit with him for a long time, holding his hand, watching the monitors that confirm he's breathing easily now, oxygen levels normal. The paracord bracelet is still on his wrist, blood-stained and battered.
Eventually, Parker finds me and gently insists I need rest, too.
I have a hotel room waiting—a bed I haven’t seen in over thirty hours—but I'm reluctant to leave.
Only the promise that they'll call if anything changes convinces me to go, and even then, I extract Flint's promise that I'll be back first thing in the morning.
Three days later, I'm back at Guardian HRS facility, this time not as a consultant in crisis but as someone considering a future I didn't know I wanted until recently.
CJ's office looks the same—maps, monitors, the organized efficiency of a man who runs multiple teams across complicated operations. But the weight feels different now. I'm not here because the world is burning. I'm here because maybe I belong here.
"The FBI has formally closed the case on Marcus Greer," CJ says, sliding a file across his desk toward me. "All devices accounted for and disarmed, his network dismantled, prosecution moving forward. They're recommending federal terrorism charges that will put him away for the rest of his life."
I scan the file, seeing photos of Greer in handcuffs, his expression no longer smug but defeated. He failed. His elaborate revenge plot, three years in the making, ended with me alive and his bombs disabled. Part of me wishes I could feel satisfaction in that.
Mostly, I just feel tired.
"How are you doing?" CJ asks, his voice gentler than I'd expect from someone with his reputation.